


The Dragon and the Moon

by aTasteofCaramell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bullying, Eventual Draco Malfoy/Luna Lovegood, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Nightmares, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Post-Series, Rating May Change, druna
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 165,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5344298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aTasteofCaramell/pseuds/aTasteofCaramell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy doesn't know what he believes anymore. He doesn't know if he cares about the dealings of mudbloods and half-bloods and blood traitors and blood purity. All he knows is that he once saved his parents from certain death, and now he is determined to save them from the entirety of the Wizarding world. Only this time he is entirely on his own.<br/>----<br/>In which Draco is an angsty prat, the family feels are strong, the politics are complicated, and Luna Lovegood is basically an angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Draco’s first week back at Hogwarts could have gone better.

He reflected on this as he lay blind and bleeding in a little-used corridor, trying to hear through his ringing ears if the footsteps of his attackers were retreating.

It really was an idiotic choice, returning to Hogwarts for his seventh year after all that had happened. But what would he have done otherwise?

He announced his desire (if it could be called that) a month ago, when it was just him and his two parents in his father’s study. Lucius sat slumped in his armchair, face in its typical state of perpetual blankness as he stared at the fire, holding a wine glass in his right hand. His left arm dangled over the edge of the chair, mark exposed. Draco and Narcissa stood to the side, and Narcissa looked as though she might burst into tears. “Why, Draco, Darling?” she pleaded. “Just stay here with us. There is time enough to go back. We must take time to –rest—recuperate—find ourselves as a family again.”

“I feel plenty rested, Mother,” Draco said. In truth, the manor threatened to drive him mad, with its metaphorical coffers all but empty, with the gaping blackness and imperceptible, psychological stench of death that hung in the air. His father’s empty eyes. His mother’s desperate, failing attempts to act as though everything were normal. The dangerous, silent doors of the cellar. The table where Professor Burbage was killed. The floors that became slick with blood when He found out about Potter and the Horcruxes, while all three of them huddled in the back, too terrified to move or look up. The halls where the Death Eaters had walked, killed, and tortured. Where Aunt Bellatrix had tortured the Granger girl, right in front of him. Where Draco had tortured Rowle, His fingers cold on his neck, his wand shaking so hard the curse kept missing—

“We will hire a tutor then, Darling,” said Narcissa.

Draco almost answered, _With what money?_ But instead asked, “Who would accept that job?”

The cornered animal look in his mother’s eyes was answer enough. The unspoken response was, of course, nobody. Nobody would deign to serve the Malfoys now, except the house elf they had happened to inherit from a distant relation only a few weeks prior. And it was a miracle that the ministry had allowed them to keep her.

He wouldn’t have anything to do if he remained here, except use Occlumency to avoid the horrible memories, drink sleeping potions at night so he wouldn’t dream, and walk on eggshells around his parents, just waiting for one of the three of them to snap. No, cowering in the mansion was the worst choice Draco could make. Cowering meant admitting wrongdoing. Cowering meant giving up the Malfoy pride. Cowering meant cutting themselves off from purebloods and mudbloods—no, Draco reminded himself, half-bloods and muggleborns— and muggles alike. If he didn’t return to the sunlight now, he might forget how.

“I have to go, Mother,” he said quietly. “Don’t you see?”

Lucius sat up, making his wife and son jump and stare in astonishment.

“Of course Draco must return!” Lucius’s voice rasped from too-little use, but he turned with a skeletal smile of mad joy. Draco’s stomach twisted. “You will do the Malfoy name proud, won’t you, Draco, dear boy?”

Draco hadn’t known until that moment that it was possible to feel such intense disgust and pity and love and determination to make a person proud all at once. It was a ghastly echo of Draco’s first day at the train station.

 _You will make us proud, Draco, my boy,_ his father’s eyes had glinted, his hand had been firm on his shoulder, his walking stick was glistening and polished and Lucius stood with his back straight and his demeanor stately. _You will show the world of what Pureblood stock is truly capable_.

“Yes, Father,” Draco said quietly. And going to Hogwarts would have been justified simply because of the expression of delight and satisfaction that spread across Lucius’s face at his reply – an expression he hadn’t seen since before Lucius had spent time in Azkaban.

And so Narcissa had written to Hogwarts, to McGonagall, the new headmistress. Her reply had been simple and brief.

_Dear Mrs. Malfoy,_

_The doors of Hogwarts remain open to any Wizard who is a British citizen, and any other Wizard who comes with a recommendation, if they are not banned by the Ministry. If you think it wise for your son to return, he will be accepted._

_Cordially,_

_Prof. Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress_

Accepted, not welcomed. But accepted. That was good enough for Draco.

*

“Mother, you don’t have to come with me. I can find my own way to the station.” Draco murmured as Nippy, the quiet house elf, readied his trunk.

“I know that, Darling, but I want to see you off.” Narcissa checked her appearance in the hall mirror. Draco looked towards the study.

“Is…he coming?”

“I’m afraid he isn’t feeling up to it,” Narcissa said. “You understand, don’t you?” 

“Of course.” Yes, he understood. Just as he understood everything else Lucius had done. That didn't make it more forgivable. Draco took his turn looking in the mirror. He subconsciously tugged his left sleeve firmly over his wrist. He had said his goodbye to Lucius earlier, anyway. He’d had a bit more color in his cheek since the decision had been made, and he had even stood up to shake Draco’s hand.

They went to the station, keeping very close together, looking out for other wizards and witches. But it wasn’t until they got to Platform 9 ¾ that they were spotted.

“It’s _Malfoy!_ Of all the _cheek_!” someone said very loudly.

“Do everyone a favor and lock yourself in Azkaban, you belly-crawling dung-licking _bigot_!” someone else called.

Narcissa’s lips pinched together. She turned and reached up, smoothing Draco’s collar. It didn’t need smoothing, but Draco let her do it. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Don’t worry, Mother,” Draco smiled at her. “Who cares what half-bloods and blood traitors think anyway, right?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Narcissa went white. “ _Draco!_ ” Her fingers dug into his shoulder, sending pains across his back. “Draco, you mustn’t say such things! You _mustn’t_!”

“All right! All right,” Draco held her shoulder in return. “I won’t, Mother, don’t worry. It was just a bad attempt at humor, all right?”

“You mustn’t,” Narcissa repeated. “Promise me. I couldn’t bear it if—”

“I won’t,” Draco repeated. “I’ll keep my nose clean, Mother, I promise.” Narcissa’s grip loosened and her hand dropped. She looked down. Draco couldn’t see her eyes, but he knew she would be fighting tears. He hated it when she cried. She didn't used to, not ever. He gently rubbed her arms as they hung at her sides. “I’ll be all right. Don’t worry.”

She looked up and gave him a watery smile. “I know you will, Darling. I’m not worried. Here,” she raised her hands to her neck and drew a chain over her head. She pressed the necklace into his palm. “We decided you should have this.”

Draco looked down at the gift. It was the Malfoy emblem, engraved with the words, _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper._ The charm was warm from Narcissa’s body.

The whistle blew. Draco bent down and gave her a kiss. She kissed him back.

“Write us,” said Narcissa.

“Every week,” said Draco. He got on the train without looking back, gripping the necklace hidden in his hand, his school bag containing his robes over his shoulder. The crowded corridors emptied before him as if he’d used a repelling charm. Rushing students pressed themselves to the walls, turned their backs, stared from a distance.

“Malfoy,” the whispers followed him. “It’s Malfoy.”

“Who’s Malfoy?”

“You dunce, they served _him_. The only reason they’re not in Azkaban is because Potter interfered.” That wasn’t true. Potter had interfered, yes, but they had also defected at the battle and betrayed their fellow Death Eaters at the trial.

“What’s he doing on the train? He can’t come back to Hogwarts, can he? They won’t allow it, will they?”

Draco moved through the train as students swarmed ahead of and behind him, looking for an empty compartment, an empty seat, an empty space. But no one spoke to him. No one, at least, until Seamus Finnigan appeared in the passage, legs splayed and hands on his hips, blocking the way. Draco halted. Whispering students, especially a healthy portion of first and second-years crowded around behind him, eyes as wide as teacups.

“You have gall, Malfoy,” Finnigan said, looking him over with narrowed eyes. “I’m surprised you and your cowardly mum dare show your faces in civilized society.”

Draco gripped the shoulder-strap of his bag, feeling his wand in the pocket (Potter had returned it after all), just begging to be used to hex Finnigan’s face into that of a fish.

“I’m surprised that you’re back,” Draco said. “Being held back a year, are you? I suppose it’s not much of a surprise, coming from someone like you.”

Finnigan looked angry at first, and then he lifted his chin and smirked. “And just what do you mean by that, Malfoy?”

Finnigan was laughing at him. Draco bit his tongue. It if were not for his promise to Narcissa, he would have been strongly tempted to coolly say “mudblood” or even just “half-breed,” just to see the look on Finnigan’s face. But only strongly tempted. Even without his promise to Narcissa, Draco had a firm handle on his emotions and no desire to see the insides of Azkaban ever again. Finnigan wanted him to call him a mudblood. Finnigan wanted an excuse to write to the Ministry and denounce him as a criminal worthy of Azkaban. Draco would not give him that satisfaction.

Instead he smirked back. “I only meant that with your over-exuberant explosions over the years you’ve caused more property damage to Hogwarts than I have in the past year alone.”

Finnigan looked gobsmacked and furious. Draco took the opportunity to brush past him, knocking him against the wall. “Close your mouth, Finnigan, or the house-elves will mistake you for a plimpy and make you into stew.”

Finnigan found his voice as Draco walked through the rapidly scattering smaller students. “You watch yourself, Malfoy! You’re not welcome at Hogwarts, you hear me? You’d slither back into the stinking hole you crawled from if you knew what’s good for you!”

Draco finally found an empty table in the dining car. He started to put his bag on the overhead rack, thought better of it, and sat down with the bag underneath the table, clamped between his legs. He folded his hands in front of him on the table and pretended to watch the scenery out of the window. In reality, he watched the students passing by in the car. It was with a sinking feeling he realized that he recognized very few. Pansy, Blaise, and Greg weren’t coming—he knew that already—unlike Finnigan they’d decided to not re-do their disrupted final year. But the lack of visible Slytherins was unnerving.

All the better, maybe, he admitted to himself. Many of their fathers and mothers would be languishing in Azkaban right now, thanks to the Malfoys. Draco didn’t fancy facing any of them if he could avoid it; especially his old comrades (he couldn't bring himself to call them friends). Still, a sense of overwhelming and friendly (albeit surreal and out of place) calm washed over him when he donned the old familiar house colors.

In the carriages on the way to Hogwarts, the students forced into the same one as him squeezed themselves into corners, turning their heads away as if afraid that breathing the air too close to them would infect them with the plague.

It wasn’t so bad, Draco told himself as they went to the Great Hall. He didn’t mind being avoided. Being avoided was probably the best thing for him, honestly. He didn’t come here for friendship, he came to make a statement. The fact that they wanted so desperately to not be near him meant his statement could not be ignored. The wide berth around him was strange and unfamiliar, clashing with the waves of happy memories. He felt positively naked without Vince and Greg.

 _Don’t think about them,_ he ordered himself furiously. _They were quick enough to turn on me when they had the chance, weren’t they? Quick enough to cowardly attempt to use the Malfoys as a stepping stone?_

Especially Vince. The great hulking idiot had become fierce and unrecognizable, his mad grin displaying itself at every sight of violence and agony, his loud boastings insufferable, his treacherous, subtle cuffs aimed at Draco and his parents, his out of place pride and excitement, the damn fool, Draco was glad he'd killed himself—he  _was_ \--

Draco fought waves of discomfort stepping past discolored and broken pieces of stone. Hogwarts had been greatly refurbished since the battle, but it was still partially in ruins. His footsteps came slower and slower until he stopped altogether, at one side of the hall as students flowed past him. He closed his eyes, forced himself to breathe. He drew on his Occlumency, compartmentalizing his emotions into boxes and shutting the lids. Then he opened his eyes again. First-years were passing him now, following McGonagall, and whispering amongst themselves.

“I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m sorted into Slytherin!”

“I’ll have to go straight home if that happens.”

“D’you suppose they’ll throw us in Azkaban if they do?”

“My parents would kill me.”

Draco went into the Hall. With a sickening lurch in his stomach, he saw that he had not been mistaken on the train. The Slytherin table was all but empty. A few remained, but there were next to none of the classmates he knew that would be in their sixth and seventh years. He sat at the far end of the table and instantly everyone crowded away from him, still whispering. Only the Bloody Baron looked at him, fixing him with cold eyes. Draco fidgeted and the Baron looked away.

Draco recognized more people at the other house tables than at his own. Seamus Finnigan of course, Parvati Patil and Michael Coroner and a few other Ravenclaws Draco recognized but didn’t know their names (it wasn’t surprising, Draco reasoned, that Ravenclaws would want to repeat their seventh year). And then there were the students that had begun a year under Draco that were now his classmates, including Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasely (she was barely visible, sitting at the front of the room on the opposite side of the Gryffindor table, but the bright red hair was unmistakable—Draco made a mental note to avoid her as much as possible). Harper, the boy who was Slytherin Quidditch seeker in Draco’s sixth year, was there also. He laughed over-loudly near the front of the room, and more than a few Slytherin girls, giggling nervously at the tension surrounding their table, huddled around him.

The evening passed in a blur. Very few students were sorted into Slytherin. Those that were got scattered applause and accusatory and/or pitying glances. Draco felt a growing anger at the attitudes of the other houses – especially when it was compared with the thunderous applause and standing ovations students received when they were sorted into Gryffindor.

“Ungrateful prats,” Draco whispered fiercely to the tabletop, knuckles growing white as they gripped the edge. “They don’t even remember that Snape died for them, do they?” Or that Merlin himself was Slytherin, or their very own Potter-worshiping Slughorn, or—or—hell, his mother had spared Potter’s life. Granted, that was to get to Draco, not protect Potter, but still—

When the feast came Draco had no stomach for it. He ate a few bites, thought he might be sick, and abruptly left the hall, going down to the dormitories in the dungeons. The silence welcomed and accused him simultaneously. He stood in the common room for a moment as good and bad memories fought for dominance in his mind. Draco stood in front of the Slytherin tapestry for a moment, then rested his fingertips against it.

A yawn from a neighboring portrait. “Well, look who it is!” proclaimed a painting from the other side of the room. Draco didn’t see which one.

“What a relief!” exclaimed Elizabeth Burke’s portrait. “Good to know that at least _one_ brilliant Slytherin has returned!”

“Brilliant?” huffed another painting. “You ought to be a _shamed_ of yourself lad, disgracing the honorable name of Slytherin like you have—”

“Disgracing?” shrieked Elizabeth Burke. “May I remind you that Salazar him _self_ was the best of us and _he_ knew the truth about—”

“Even Salazar wasn’t completely _mad—_ ”

“Oh be _quiet!_ If it were up to you Slytherin House would be completely contaminated by now! We would be overrun with muggle-borns! I swear, I will lead a rebellion if we start relaxing our standards! I’ll destroy myself before I see this house infiltrated with the filthy, arrogant, useless mudbloods—”

“Shut _up!_ ” Draco snapped. The portraits ignored him, deep in their argument. Slytherin House really was in trouble if even the paintings were at each others’ throats. He escaped to his assigned room and found it to contain a single bed.

But of course. With Slytherin being so empty, and nobody would want to room with him anyway…

Draco felt a wave of homesickness unlike anything he had ever known, not even during his first year. He sank down on the bed, lost for a moment in self-pity.

But only for a moment. Draco shook himself.

_You will do the Malfoy name proud, won’t you, Draco, dear boy?_

“First things first,” Draco murmured. He circled the room, casting protective spells and counter-jinxes, especially around his trunk and bag and other personal belongings as he unpacked them. “My name,” he said in defiance to the walls. “Is Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

In his sixth year, Draco had been the only person capable of saving his parents from Voldemort. He had done it. And now in his belated seventh, he was the only person capable of saving their very names from all of Wizarding society. And he would do that too. He would do it so his father could stand straight and look people in the eye again. He would do it so his mother could smile and be strong again; no more tears. He would do it if it killed him. Metaphorically, of course. Dying would have the exact opposite effect on his parents, no matter what else he would manage to do for them along the way.

*

The first few days of classes passed strangely uneventfully. Students still avoided him, looking over their shoulders and whispering, and sometimes laughing. The professors all looked him in the eyes at least once. Their dry sarcasm and passive-aggressive taunts made the students giggle. Professor Flitwick looked the most suspicious, Professor Slughorn looked the most uncomfortable, and Headmistress McGonagall looked at him – not exactly the kindliest, but at least with the least amount of malice.  She didn’t teach Transfiguration anymore, though. Sturgis Podmore, one of the war-heroes, was the new professor.

Draco sat in the back in all of his classes except Defense Against the Dark Arts. He loved this class, still, though it was the hardest to sit through. The professor, ex-Unspeakable Saul Croaker, clearly thought very little of him, and his dark gaze would at another time have made Draco feel threatened. A lot of the material was review, and at the same time a lot of it was not. Draco knew, thanks to Aunt Bellatrix, a good deal about the hexes and curses they were learning to deflect. He could have demonstrated many of them, though he kept that information to himself.

It was difficult to sit there, and yet satisfying. The hatred that buffeted against him was strongest there, and but he could sit in plain view, excel in the art, and they could _hate_ him and he could be proud as he sat there alone - always alone. His only issue was with the memories, but Occlumency training helped him push them away and he could perform without distractions, most of the time.

It was there, and only there, that he almost missed Aunt Bellatrix.

So it was one week into classes when he, used to the students avoiding him, let his guard slip, and he made a stupid choice. He walked down an abandoned corridor towards Charms.

Strangely, the weight on his shoulders was so much heavier than it had been in his sixth year. Perhaps it was because before he had at least had the support of the greatest Dark Wizard of all time and all of his allies on his side, even if they terrified him. Now, it was just Draco. His parents were far away, shut up in the manor, hardly daring to show their faces. And Draco, stupid, stupid Draco, had presented himself full-force in the bright light of Hogwarts, surrounded by exactly those who hated him most, and stupid, stupid Draco supposed that he was good enough to counter them all.

And stupid, stupid Draco hadn’t been paying attention when he chose his route to Charms class.

Really, the blindness hex was a nice touch. Draco turned a corner, lost his sight, and had no idea who was attacking him. It didn’t hurt as black clouds descended over his eyes, and Draco stopped dead, confused until his wand leaped from his hand with an audible snap. Then realization dawned and he ducked. The next hex crashed into the wall behind him. The cave-like, muffled echo told him someone had cast a muffliato charm. Shuffling footsteps—lots of footsteps. Draco groped on the ground for his wand, furious, and then the hexes started hitting him.

They must be skilled, because they were all non-verbal. Or else, the ringing in his ears prevented him from hearing any whispered spells. Even as pain ripped up his back, tore across his face, and stabbed underneath his fingernails, Draco didn’t feel very afraid.

After the Dark Lord, he didn’t think anything could make him feel afraid again.

Draco pushed himself to his feet, forcing a mocking grin through the pain. “Oh, very noble and brave of you,” he said to his unknown assailants. “Hiding your faces. Just do me a favor, tell me, exactly how many of you does it take to gather up the nerve to dual one Malfoy?” Something swept his feet out from under him and he fell. Humiliation burned in his core. “Oh wait,” Draco spat. “This isn’t a dual, it’s a bloody _ambush._ What a bloody _brilliant_ way to impress your Lords and Masters, Saint Potter and co—”

Draco flew backwards and slammed against the wall. Blood squelched between his teeth. Something pressed up against his nose and mouth, but when he raised his hands his fingers only touched his skin. Draco choked, retched, and started to panic. Something rammed into his stomach and he lost the ability to even try to breathe. The hard stone pressed against his back and side. He struggled to sit up and found himself bound by invisible ropes. Anger swam across his vision, turning the dark a blood-red shade. It ballooned inside of him, pressed against his eyes, started the tears – somebody was laughing.

Occlumency saved him.

 _Empty your mind, sweetie. Only allow in what you want in. Focus and project. You are strong, your blood is strong._ _Don’t let the blood traitors in._

Draco banished his emotions, banished the tears, and he finally stopped struggling as he became lightheaded. His chest exploded with pain, his heartrate sped as if that would help make up for the lack of oxygen he was getting.

And then he could breathe again.

His ears still rang. Draco gasped, lying on the floor. He dared to try to move and his hands lifted on his command. He sat up and rubbed his ears. The ringing lessened. He heavy breathing echoed in the hall. Something was dripping onto the floor. He moved his hands across the rest of his face and the nerves in his nose awoke when he touched it. He cried out and retched, and then bit down on his knuckles and leaned his head against the wall, waiting for the pain to subside, struggling to keep the vomiting reflex under control.

He still couldn’t see. Shifting masses of grey and black mist held no meaning for him. Draco moved carefully, feeling the blood from his crushed nose run over his mouth and down his chin. He got onto his knees and crawled, running his hands over the stone. He couldn’t feel his left leg. After a moment of panic he found it with his hand and it felt normal enough. So it was simply numb, not gone.

 _Accio wand,_ he thought, more sarcastic than anything else. Really, a more useful spell could not be invented, if only it could be used without the item he wanted to summon.

Oh, Merlin, what if they had stolen it?

Foosteps, an irregular rhythm, as if someone were taking two quick steps with long pauses in between.

_Merlin’s beard!_

The anger returned, and the humiliation, and blood rushed up his neck. He didn’t want to be found, not in this state. Draco Malfoy, helpless on the floor, viciously attacked by young wizards. Mudbloods—no, Draco corrected himself, _half-_ bloods and muggleborns— most likely, fifth and sixth years and possibly seventh years, all younger than him, all with much less experience than him, they hadn’t fought in a war with a Dark Wizard at their side, had they?

If only he could find his wand—

_You will do the Malfoy name proud, won’t you, Draco, dear boy?_

His throat closed over. One week into classes and he was already failing. Couldn’t even avoid an ambush, for god’s sake.

He bumped into something. The pain sliced through his face again and Draco thought he might faint. His shoulders shook and his head swam and he crouched there on his hands and knees like some kicked puppy.

Not like this, not on his hands and knees. With a massive effort of last resort, Draco hurled himself backwards so that he sat there awkwardly, on his knees, head swimming. He fought the vomiting reflex again, dizzy with the pain. The footsteps got louder and then stopped. The person had rounded the corner and seen him.

Draco stared straight ahead, trying to use his Occlumency training to look as though sitting on the floor with a crushed nose and blood all over his face and a numb left leg and god knew what other sorts of injuries were a perfectly dignified thing for a Malfoy to be doing.

“Oh, hullo, Draco. Have you lost your wand?”

Draco couldn’t believe his ears. He would have scowled, but any movement to his facial muscles were agonizing. The voice was airy, cheerful, and factual. Not mocking, and not surprised.

Oh no. Not her. Anybody but her.

Not Luna Lovegood.

That would explain the footsteps; she had been skipping.

“Let’s see,” she said, moving past him. “Oh, you nearly had it, didn’t you? It just rolled under the podium here.” Movement beside him, and then she pressed the smooth wood into his hand. Draco’s fingers closed over it and cool relief washed over him. It wasn’t broken, at least.

 _All right, you’ve given me my wand, now get lost,_ Draco thought, afraid to open his mouth because of the pain.

“Draco, you’ve hurt yourself,” Luna said thoughtfully. “Hold still a moment, and I’ll—”

Draco jerked backwards, fearful of what she might try, as Luna said "Episkey!" in her airy sing-song. He flinched, his bones gave an audible crack, and the pain disappeared.

“There,” said Luna in a satisfied voice. “I knew it would work, because I had to do the same thing for Harry Potter one year on the train. Though yours looked significantly worse. It’s odd how boys hurt themselves so badly, isn’t it? Does it hurt much?”

Luna Lovegood had healed Potter? From the broken nose that Draco had given him? Draco suddenly wanted to laugh. Instead he glared in Luna’s general direction, wary of her next movements. Draco hated the very thought of her calmly healing him, when she had languished in their cellar for—

Draco shuddered and banished the thought.

What did she think she was _doing_? To be pitied was bad enough. To be avoided, to be mocked, to be pointed at with disgust and whispers and hatred. To be spat at by the few Slytherins that remained, to be laughed at by the pureblood relations of Vince and Greg, to have a constant, heavy, throat-blocking frigid stone in his throat and stomach—

_There’s Draco Malfoy. He’s a Death Eater. He betrayed the Wizards. He and the rest of his pathetic family should be in Azkaban for the rest of their pitiful lives. It’s a shame they got rid of the dementors. Dementors are too good for them._

_Shame, disgusting, pathetic, weak, helpless, traitors—_

“Draco?” Concern wound into Luna’s voice.

Pity was bad enough. To be pitied by the pitiable, to be pitied by the insane, pathetic, wispy Luna _Lovegood_ , admired only because of her connection to the famous Harry James _Potter_ —

Draco jerked to his feet.

That was a mistake. His numb leg gave out and he flailed, catching the edge of the podium he had knocked against earlier. It rocked under his weight and something heavy on it wobbled.

“Filthy _blood traitor_ ,” Draco blurted. Or, he tried to. His tongue was numb as well, and the only thing that came out was a splutter-surrounded “ _blood_.”

“Yes, there is still quite a bit of blood, isn’t there?” said Luna, her voice back to its distant, dreamy tones. “You really ought to go see Madam Pomfrey.”

Draco rubbed his mouth and managed to slur out the next words, “I do not. Leave me alone.”

“Oh, dear,” Luna said, as if she hadn’t heard him. “You’ve been attacked by Wracking Prockbins, haven’t you?”

Draco maneuvered his leg into a position that allowed him to lean some weight on it. “What?”

“Wracking Prockbins. They’re related to Wrackspurts, but they affect your eyes instead of your brain. You can’t see, can you? Is that how you hurt yourself?”

Draco had a hard time believing that even Luna Lovegood was stupid enough to believe his current state came from hurting himself. That only meant she was protecting his dignity by pretending to not know what had happened, and that was a thousand times worse.

Draco, carefully balancing on his numb leg, tugged his robes into place, taking care to ensure that his left sleeve came down to his wrist, merely said, “I’m fine.”

“Wracking Prockbins will affect you for days, I’m afraid, and it looks like you have a rather bad case.” said Luna. She moved without him hearing and so he jumped when she threaded her arm through his left one. “Try focusing on seeing light again, I hear that helps. Now, let’s get to Charms. I suppose you’ll want to stop by the men’s room first.” She tugged him forward and Draco stumbled, partially because of his bad leg, partially through indecision.

Which was worse? To admit he needed the help of Loony Luna Lovegood, of all people, or be seen by hundreds of students in this state while he groped around, blind and bloody?

It wasn’t really a choice. Draco gave a tug on his left sleeve. Of course, Draco reasoned while he limped along at her side, falling against her more than once (she didn’t seem to mind his weight, and was surprisingly steady), it was only natural that someone so batty should be obliged to assist someone of his bloodstatus. There wasn’t anything shameful in it, really. That was why house elves served them, wasn’t it? She wasn’t taking pity on him, she was fulfilling her proper place.

The cellar rose to his mind again, mixed with the overwhelming stench of blood from his own face, and made him stumble again.

_No, no, no._

How he wished he could see. The images from his memory wouldn’t be so stark, then. He concentrated on using a leg he couldn’t feel, and staring at light he couldn’t see, and the images faded.

“Here we are,” said Luna, releasing his arm and turning him to face the door. “Take your time. If I’m not here when you come back out, wait. I’ll be right back.”

Draco gripped the doorway. The silence of the halls told him the time. “You’ll be late for Charms,” he said, stupidly. The numbness in his mouth was wearing off.

“So will you,” said Luna cheerfully. “It’s all right, Professor Flitwick won’t mind,” and she scampered off before he could protest again. Draco felt his way into the bathroom and to the sink. He turned on the water and gingerly washed his face. The horrible pain from his face gone, the rest of his body started protesting.  His stomach felt as though someone had skewered him with a spear. His back ached as if he’d fallen from a great height and landed on it. His limbs intermediately burned, stung, and throbbed. He would have to deal with them later. His nose, however, felt as good as new.

“Scourgify,” he muttered, hoping the spell would alleviate any bloodstains on his robes. The scent of blood vanished, mercifully.

He emerged, getting the hang of his leg, and waited for Luna. The seconds turned into minutes, trudging past while he fidgeted. He didn’t really mind missing the first half of Charms class; what he minded was the inevitable questions, mockery, stares, house point deductions—

“Here you are!” Luna panted and pressed a small circlet into his palm. “It’s an eyeglass, it’ll help you see. Come on,” she pulled on his arm and they started out through the empty halls, quicker than before, as Draco could use his leg properly. “I’m sorry it took me so long, someone had gone through my things and I had to search the other dorm rooms as well. They probably didn’t know what it was, though. It was developed by my father, especially for Wracking Prockbins.”

“Brilliant, just what I needed,” Draco muttered.

“Yes, I thought so,” said Luna happily, his sarcasm lost on her. “We’re getting close now.”

Draco pulled away and crashed into another bloody statue, his shoulder bumping a picture frame. He staggered and fell while the painting scolded him, then jumped back up. “Don’t say _anything_!” he hissed furiously, and Luna didn’t.

They reached the door, Luna whispered, “You’re opening your eyes rather wide, Draco. It doesn’t look natural.” With this last piece of advice, she slipped inside and disappeared, leaving an almost palatable emptiness at his side. Draco shut the door behind him, and stood, frozen as he felt several dozen eyes turn to him.

“Mr. Malfoy, Miss Lovegood,” squeaked Professor Flitwick. “I will see you after class, please. Take your seats; we are practicing bewitched sleeps. You will find the incantation on page 127. Use the frogs at the benches.”

Draco moved sideways, heart in his mouth, knowing he must look strange and awkward in his movements. He forced himself to take one bold step, then two, then three, then—his knee knocked against the bench at the back of the class and he sat down. The class slowly resumed its murmuring. Silence came from beside him; he was alone. Thankful, at least, for that, Draco ducked down with the pretense of pulling his book out of his bag, though he already knew the incantation. Aunt Bellatrix had taught him (it was a convenient way to keep prisoners quiet). Instead, out of desperation, Draco held the glass piece to his eye and winced in surprise at the murky light that hit his cornea. He couldn’t make out more than shifting grey colors, but it was something. He pulled out the book, set it on the table, and flipped through it with the pretense of finding the spell. Then he shut it, hid the eyeglass in one hand, and ran the other along the tabletop until he found the glass container that must contain the frog.

He murmured the charm, aiming his wand at the glass case, felt a gentle stream of magic, and then sat for a moment, wondering if it had worked.

“Very good, Mr. Malfoy,” said Flitwick’s voice from beside him and Draco jumped. “I see you have already mastered this charm.”

“Yes, Professor,” Draco said.

“It’s quite a difficult one,” said Flitwick.

“I studied it over one—summer.” Draco turned his head away from Flickwick, even though he couldn’t see the accusatory stare that was almost certainly coming from him now.

“Very impressive,” Flitwick repeated. “Are you…all right?”

Draco’s fingers tightened on his wand. _I am a Malfoy. Of course I’m all right._ “Yes, Professor.”

“You can work on other assignments now, if you wish, in the remaining time.”

“Yes, Professor,” Draco repeated, listening to his steps pattering away before swearing under his breath. Homework assignments. What if Luna was right and this blindness continued for days? He wouldn’t be able to keep it secret. Draco held up the eyeglass again by covering his face with his hands and then peering out through his fingers. He spent a few seconds focusing on the waving lights before retrieving his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook and pretending to study.

He found himself thinking of home. But not home as he remembered it from a week ago – home from years ago, before the Dark Lord, before the Death Eaters, when his mother sent bubbles across the room to exasperate his father, when they worked together to animate the exotic dragon models brought one of father's long trips overseas, when his father helped him onto his first broomstick and Draco had risen immediately, with pride, and then promptly fallen off, but his father had caught him with a quickly-uttered charm and his mother had caught him in her arms and then fallen over and father had to catch her too, but they had all ended up on the floor anyway, laughing like it was the funniest thing to have ever happened to anybody—

The bell rang and students rose up, filing out of the room. Draco remained where he was, putting his books back in his bag and waiting until the footsteps faded before carefully standing up. His foot bumped against the table leg, but with one hand trailing on the table edges, Draco managed to make his way to the front of the room. He stopped when his hand ran out of table edges.

“Miss Lovegood, Mr. Malfoy. Will you please explain your tardiness?” said Professor Flitwick from somewhere in front of and below Draco’s head.

“Yes sir,” said Luna. “I was concerned about Wracking Prockbins, you see. The air was thick with them, you can tell because of the dust in sunbeams. So I went to my dorms to grab a warding amulet, but I couldn’t find it right away, and I’m sorry it made me so late.”

Luna Lovegood was _lying_.

“See, here it is. Would you like to keep it?”

All right, maybe she wasn’t exactly lying, but she was lying by omission. Draco couldn’t believe it.

“That’s all right, Miss Lovegood. No harm done. And Mr. Malfoy entering the room with you…?”

“That was a coincidence,” Draco said quickly. “I – forgot to take my Charms book with me this morning. I had to go back to retrieve it.”

Professor Flitwick was silent for a moment. “Very well, no harm done, Mr. Malfoy. Be sure to be on time, both of you, or I may need to deduct points from your houses.”

“Thank you sir,” said Luna. Draco said nothing. He turned around and followed Luna’s footsteps out. Charms, thank the heavens, was the last class period of the day. And what’s more, it was Friday.

“You lied,” he muttered to Luna as they closed the door behind him.

Luna sounded surprised. “No I didn’t. You did.”

“You didn’t tell him you were with me and that made you late,” Draco amended.

“I thought you didn’t want him to know, and I didn’t see a reason to tell him. Was I wrong?”

“No,” Draco said. He stopped and held out the glass piece.

“Is your eyesight better already?”

“No.”

“Then keep it. You’ll need it, won’t you? Are you going to supper now?”

“No.”

“Do you need—”

“ _No._ Just back off and leave me alone, will you?”

Draco spun on his heel and stalked away. His footsteps echoed. He couldn’t hear any other students, so he brought the eyepiece up again. A dark shadow loomed in the shifting shades of grey and Draco swerved to miss what was probably a suit of armor.

Somehow, he made his way down to the dungeons. He only tripped five times, only stubbed his toes ten times, only ran into various walls, bannisters, and displays seven or eight times, and he only fell twice. He got to his room and closed the door (when he went through the common room, silence fell completely), then uneasily searched his room as best he could. There didn’t seem to be anything missing; his charms had held.

Draco lay back on his bed, exhausted, and unstopped a small bottle that sat on the bedside table. He took a small sip, and smiled to himself. Mother had given this one the flavor of raspberries. He restopped the potion and pulled out a chain that was hidden beneath his clothing. He gripped the charm in his palm and repeated silently to himself, in an endless refrain, _santimonia vincet semper, sanctimonia vincet semper, sanctimonia vincet semper,_ for the sole reason that it sounded like home, until he fell asleep.

_Purity Will Always Conquer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have read and enjoyed many a fanfic that writes Draco as a misunderstood, tortured, insecure heartthrob who is covering up his sweet nature. But I don't feel that this portrayal is really canon, as J.K. has said that Draco is not hiding a heart of gold, and that the Malfoy family has only one saving grace: they love each other. So I decided to write a fic where he is still the racist, arrogant, cowardly little twat that he is at the end of the series, albeit a much more insecure one who is being forced to reconsider his worldviews and will, slowly, undergo a hopefully realistic character change. 
> 
> Also Luna is my favorite and I have the unfortunate tendency to climb aboard little-discussed ships, so Druna it is.
> 
> I try very hard to keep people in character, so I'd appreciate any thoughts or critiques.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not 100% satisfied with this, but decided to go ahead and post it and get it out of the way so I can move on.

Draco woke with lamplight in his eyes and panicked because he couldn’t make anything out. Then he remembered he was blind and sulked, and then he realized that he could see light without the help of the eyeglass and felt a rush of excitement. He sat up and yelped as shrieks of pain shot through his body. Draco groaned, rubbing his eyes and staring. He groped the beside table until he found Luna’s eyeglass and held it up.

The very basic outlines of shapeless blurs met his gaze. Hunger twisted in his stomach. Draco dragged himself to his trunk, grunting with pain, and opened it, sifting through the depths until he found the box of sweets. Narcissa had sent him these boxes every year, though less and less frequently and in less and less ornate boxes. He finished off the chocolates, not wishing to go down to breakfast. Hunger abated, he took up his wand and tried various healing spells on himself. Some aches and pains were alleviated; others were from mysterious sources and refused to leave. He accidentally enlarged his ears and spent fifteen minutes getting them back down to size. He sat fidgeting, wondering if he could figure out a way to enchant a quill with a note-taking dictation charm like Skeeter's to do homework.

_Such a terrific start._ Draco rubbed his forehead. _Bloody hexes. So much for being top of the class now that_ _Granger's gone._

It was strange, worrying about something as dull and tedious and _normal_ as homework. He wished for a letter. The silence that surrounded him made him antsy. The silence from the manor made his throat ache.  It was too soon to expect a letter, honestly.

_Besides,_ he thought gloomily. _I wouldn’t be able to read it._

*

Sunday dawned with little change in his eyesight. Driven mad by the solitude, Draco dared to venture out of his room. The common room had a few Slytherins in it, and he felt their eyes on him as he passed. He bumped his hip into the back of one chair and stumbled, eliciting snickers from its occupant.

Emerging from the dungeons, he gripped his wand in his hand, listening hard for any sounds of attack. He'd spent Saturday improving in his ability to decipher the meanings of the shifting shadows and shuffled forward with wavering confidence, using the eyeglass when he thought himself alone, pausing and lounging against the wall when voices or footsteps or vaguely human-shaped shadows appeared. Even though he wouldn’t be able to read it, even though an owl should have found him by now if it had a delivery, Draco decided to try to get to the owlery. It was easy enough leaving the dungeons (their staircases were carved in stone and unmovable), but it took him only two staircases in the upper levels before he completely lost his sense of direction.

“Damn you!” he growled to the stairs as one swerved underneath his feet. Unable to turn back, Draco simply continued to make his way upwards. He would find the outdoor passage to the owlery eventually, right?

“Oy, Malfoy,” an unfamiliar voice called.

With a hex-reflecting charm in the forefront of his mind, he turned and raised his eyebrows.

“Lovegood’s looking for you.”

_Just what I need._ Draco’s lips twisted in a grimacing smirk. “What for?”

“How should I know?” the voice grumbled. “I didn’t trap her in the family dungeons for weeks on end, did I? Anyway. She’s been lurking about the lower levels asking for you and being a bloody nuisance. Saw her in the Great Hall last.” After a pause, the voice added, “Watch yourself, Malfoy. If my crazy aunt had tortured her in my house I’d be staying as far away as possible.”

That was a little unfair. Aunt Bellatrix tortured every blood traitor and halfblood and muggle-born that came their way. It wasn’t anything personal. Suspicious, Draco stayed where he was as the student left. Was the student trying to warn him? Which house was he in? Slytherins universally hated Draco, it went without saying that Gryffindors and Ravenclaws would probably do anything to lure him into a trap, as for Hufflepuff...who could say? But regardless of house loyalties, any of them could sympathize with Luna, even if they made fun of her and stole her things. No, most likely he was simply gloating. The student could be right, after all. With a sinking feeling, Draco realized he had no reason to dismiss the idea that Luna herself had been involved in the attack. It would explain how she had known he was blind, and how to help cure it, and why she was helping him conceal it from everyone. It would explain why she had stuck to his side like a fly to honey, relishing his humiliation. Draco turned and made his way back from where he had come (though at this point he had no idea whether it was the right direction). If she was searching for him now, the best thing to do would be to escape back to his room, as quickly as—

“Draco!” A shadow appeared in front of him, making him jump and raise his wand. 

_Merlin!_ How did she do that?

_Well, Malfoy, it probably has something to do with the fact that she can see and you cannot._

Luna stepped closer. “Were you looking for me?”

“What do you mean?” Draco snapped, stepping away and keeping his wand up. “Why would I be looking for you?”

“Well, you’re awfully close to the Ravenclaw common room.”

“Oh.”

“Where were you going?”

“The owlery.”

“Oh, I see. Mind if I come with you? I'm going to send a letter to my father.” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “Shall I take your arm, or can you follow well enough?”

Draco scowled, irritation seeping through him and making his unnamable aches worsen. “If you want to go to the owlery, go to the owlery, and don’t mind me.”

“All right then. I’ll go slowly.” Luna walked off ahead of him. Draco glared after her for several long seconds before following. He held up the eyeglass and noted that he could distinguish her limbs from her torso. They walked in silence. Draco stumbled on the uneven ground, his hexing aches throbbing, as they climbed to the owlery. 

Of course, there was no letter, no package, no words. The owls paid him no mind and he sat heavily on a bench by the wall, regretting it instantly. The padded sensation meant it was coated in an inch or two of droppings. Draco rested his forehead in his palm, propping his elbow on his knee.

_Nothing will have happened._ He let his hand drop and looked up, watching Luna’s silhouette tie her letter to a round lump that hooted like an owl but looked like a bludger to him as she hummed.

_It will be just as dull as ever. Father will be silent, Mother will rearrange furniture, the house elf will creatively make thirteen hundred different dishes from five ingredients…_

He was attempting to fool himself, but it wasn’t working. How very Slytherin. Draco twisted the house ring on his finger. It didn’t matter how dull life at the manor was. Narcissa always wrote, even if it was about nothing. Always. Draco leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The sunlight pouring through the windows warmed his skin and the breeze carried the smell of grass and decaying leaves, and the faint roar of a few hundred students enjoying the good weather.

“Draco,” said Luna, stopping her humming. Draco opened his eyes as Luna made her way towards him. “I have a favor to ask.”

“I’m not in your debt, whatever you think, so I’m not granting you any favors,” Draco said.

“In my debt?” Luna sat down beside him. “What are you talking about?” Draco turned his face away, towards the breeze, and didn’t answer. He only half-listened to Luna as the intrusive thoughts of his parents refused to leave. “I’m having this trouble with Professor Sprout, you see,” Luna continued. “She has difficulty reading my handwriting and has told me I must get extra practice with my penmanship. I could just copy sections from books, of course, but that sounds rather dull to me. Would it be all right if I wrote your homework assignments out?”

Draco blinked. “What?” Something made a clicking sound near the floor.

“I’ve already finished mine for the weekend,” said Luna. _Click, click._ “I won’t be _doing_ them for you, obviously. I’m not asking you to cheat, I’m only asking you to dictate.”

“Dictate.”

_Click, click._ “Right. If I can improve my penmanship it would help me greatly with my grades in herbology.”

Draco stood up, scattering owl droppings. “Are you out of your ever-loving _mind_? What do you want from me, Lovegood?”

Luna's lower silhouette twitched. The clicking sound came from her heel swinging back and forth and hitting the leg of the bench. “To improve my penmanship,” she said at last, stubbornly.

“Improve your penmanship, my arse! As if you would need to after six years in this place. You could be outside right now, hunting for crushed-horn snorggles or whatever you call them, or creating a ridiculous hat or earrings, and instead you’re here bothering _me_ instead of pissing off.”

“Crumple-horned snorkack,” Luna corrected him. “I wouldn’t find them here, they only live in Sweden.”

“Then go to Sweden, for all I care, and leave me alone!” Draco turned and stumbled his way towards the door. He didn’t get far. He collided with an owl’s perch, sending a flock of them screeching around his ears. He waved his arms, stumbled back, tripped over something and fell flat on the aforementioned arse. The eyeglass flew from his hand. He sat coughing in the dust. Luna started humming again, clicking her heel against the bench.

_Great, just perfect!_ Draco furiously rubbed his face free of the dust. He just had to go make a fool of himself _again_ by losing his cool, in front of the Lovegood girl, _again._ And with crude language, no less.

_You will do the Malfoy name proud, won’t you, Draco, dear boy?_

Draco had a hard time caring about his classes. He had a hard time caring about his homework assignments. He had a hard time concentrating on anything when the silent emptiness around him was so distracting. But as he sat there as dust and droppings settled over him and the owls resumed their muffled hooting, he thought again about the perfect opportunity that was the absence of Granger.

_Well, just as long as nobody sees us…_

Draco coughed again. Luna stopped humming and he could imagine her looking at him expectantly. “Where do you want to go?”

“Why not stay here? It’s rather nice, don’t you think?”

“You’re off your rocker,” said Draco, grimacing as the owl droppings crunched underneath his hands.

“I’ve been told,” said Luna. “How about the astronomy tower, then?”

Draco shivered, then scowled. “No.”

“Very well then, how about the clock tower?”

“Clock tower?” Draco pictured the courtyard. That would never do; it was too open.

“It can be a bit cramped by the gears,” said Luna. “And it’s incredibly loud when it strikes the quarter-hours, but it’s a good place for studying.”

“You mean, go _into_ the clock?” Draco hadn’t known you could do such a thing.

“Why yes,” said Luna. “I go there often. It’s just a maintenance space, really, but it’s nice if you want to get some thinking done without anybody bothering you.”

At another time, Draco would have instantly utilized this new knowledge of a hidden space privately used by a dotty student to formulate a plan for the humiliation of Lovegood or Potter or even just slimy old Mr. Filch. That exhilarated, cunning, plotting sensation only lasted an instant before evaporating. It was a schoolboy’s dream. A schoolboy who had minions to command to bring about the desired result and hadn't seen mass slaughter. That wasn’t Draco anymore.

He stood up. “ _Accio_ eyeglass,” he said and it zoomed into his hand. He held it up, and with a jolt he noticed that Luna’s silhouette was more pronounced. He could actually make out curves now.

“You’re in a state,” Luna’s curvy silhouette commented.

“What are you talking about?” Draco smirked and added with a hasty _scourgify_ , “I’m a Malfoy. I’m immaculate. Lead the way.”

*

With Luna’s assistance, Draco managed to stay on top of his homework, even with the distracting, nagging, constant worry that something had happened at the manor. By that Wednesday, his eyesight had improved enough to be able to read with the help of the eyeglass. When he told Luna that he was tired of dictating for her, she suggested, “Why don’t you get glasses?” to which he mentally responded, _that’s a resemblance to Potter I’ll die before taking_ , and verbally responded, “I don’t like glasses.”

“Me neither,” said Luna, “Though the spectrespecs are really quite handy for avoiding Wrackspurts.”

“Not Wracking Prockbins, though?”

“I’m afraid not. They aren’t that closely related.”

_Why am I talking to her about her imaginary animals?_   Draco shrugged one shoulder and left her standing there without another word.

With his improved eyesight, the first thing Draco did after classes was shove aside all homework assignments, get out a fresh scroll, and write a letter to his parents. It was awkward, for two reasons. For one, in order to see well enough he had to lower his face a few inches from the paper and hold the eyeglass with one hand while he wrote with the other. For the other, he had to hesitate and think about what he wanted to say.

Tell them he had been attacked? Out of the question.

Tell them he was associating with Luna Lovegood? Even more out of the question.

Tell them he was associating with essentially nobody and that Slytherins as well as everyone else seemed to despise the very sight of him, purebloods and halfbloods and muggle-borns alike? The _most_ out of the question.

Draco had never had to severely edit his letters before. He could write out pages and pages of his accomplishments and the school activities and detailed biographies about Granger and Weasely and Potter and ask for advice and complain about the mudbloods and ask for the most recent stories of how Lucius had outshone the minister. He had never hidden anything from them, not really. He had never needed to. He had never wanted to. Draco sucked on his lower lip and lowered the quill to the paper.

_Dear Mother and Father,_

_It’s something of a miracle, but Hogwarts has changed very little. Most of the new professors are proving decently competent, though Slughorn of course does not live up to his predecessor, and Defense Against the Dark Arts will never return to the same glory it had sixth year. Though, having an Unspeakable teach is an interesting turn of events. Did you know? Croaker’s the professor now. Anyway, McGonagall, though she’s still something of a crotchety old codger, does ensure that the place runs like clockwork._

_The House Cup competition will certainly be amusing this year, as the other three houses have never been quite so chummy. I don’t have the time to involve myself very deeply in such things (you’ll be pleased to know, Father, that I am earning top marks), but watching them fall over themselves competing to earn the title of Potter’s Number One Fan is frightfully entertaining. McGonagall encourages it, of course. She’s been speaking of Inter-House unity for ages, so I suppose Potter is a convenient rallying point. Unfortunately, the Slytherin ranks are noticeably slim this year. Not to worry, though; I’ve a plan to remedy this. All I need to do is find an exceptionally hardy wife and we can pull a Weasley, together rebuilding the ranks of Slytherin with copious Malfoys. (Mother, before you get too excited, no, that was not a subtle admission that I have a girlfriend. Honestly, there isn’t anyone here that I’m interested in. There will be plenty of time after I graduate top of the class for that sort of thing.)_

_I hear the Golden Trio are making quite the splash at the ministry. You must keep me informed of anything you hear, as I don’t quite trust the Prophet and the gossip that flourishes so well at this school. Is it true that Granger and Weasely are advocating for elfin rights—whatever the hell that means?_

_Thank you for the new potion flavors, Mother. I am a definite fan of the raspberry and coconut, and the caviar is definitely interesting. The catfish, while the real thing is splendid in real tartar sauce, was a bit much. Have you considered trying to emulate wine? That would definitely hold amusing applications._

_While the majority of my original acquaintances are no longer attending, in a rather bizarre turn of events Luna Lovegood has started dogging me and trying to strike up conversations about nargles and blibbering harbringers and whatever other sorts of nonsense she and her father believe in. I can’t imagine why. Her love of Care of Magical Creatures certainly is not helping her get over her obsessions._

_Write soon. Do not hold back any mishaps at the manor, like Grandfather shouting down imaginary critics or the new house-elf burning the toast. I wish to know every dirty little detail._

_I hope you are well._

_Love,_

_Draco_

It was only after staring in desperation at the too-short letter that Draco added the paragraph about Luna Lovegood. He chewed his lower lip as he cut off the excess parchment and rolled the scroll into a tight column. And the very last bit – Draco was worried. Any other year he would have had two or three notes, letters, and/or packages from Narcissa by now. His quip about Grandfather and the house elf (he’d forgotten her name), the badly-hidden plea of “I _hope_ you are well” conveyed his concerned undertones and his veiled requests. Draco put away the eyeglass, eyes aching, and went up to the owlery. He stood at the window watching the blurry outline of the borrowed Hogwarts owl fly into the sunset, trying to send his thoughts with it.

_Write soon. Please. Just a sentence. Just a note. Just a signed piece of paper for all I care. Something. Anything._

_Please._

*

Draco had thought the worst part about coming back to Hogwarts would be facing the students and professors there. He thought it would be the jinxes and hexes. He thought it would be the sheer boredom of studying. He thought it would be avoiding infuriated children of the third cousins of Death Eaters. He thought it would be facing each day with no one to talk to. But this worry drove him mad. The next weekend dawned uneventful, and he had still heard nothing. His eyesight improved to the point where he didn’t need the eyeglass anymore, and that Friday afternoon after Charms he slipped it into Luna’s hand as they left the room.

“Are you all right, Draco?” she queried.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Mind your own business, Lovegood.”

Draco went to drop off his books in his room. Preoccupied, he almost didn’t notice the queer shimmer on his doorknob. Draco stopped short and eyed it. Then, at the risk of causing an explosion, he selected an anti-cursed-object charm. He guessed correctly, and the booby-trap (whatever it was) evaporated. Draco gritted his teeth and bit his tongue, telling himself that the feeling of betrayal was nonsensical and unwarranted. So what if some student had tried to jinx him? That single person did not personify Slytherin house. They did not personify Slytherin. They did not personify what Slytherin stood for.

He went up to the owlery and stayed there until the sun set. He started going to the Great Hall for every breakfast that weekend and into the next week, waiting for a delivery. He drank his potions, lay awake in bed for the majority of the nights, paced the empty room and punched the walls when the stress became too much. He started speaking his thoughts out loud, just for the sake of having someone to speak to, even if it was only himself. He fought to stay alert in class as sleep deprivation plucked at his mind. 

The next Saturday, the third weekend of the school year, in the middle of the afternoon, he commandeered a tub, intent on escaping his worries for an hour or so. It was less than a quarter of the size of the prefects' bathtub. He lay in the water with his left arm tucked behind his back, but that became painful so he cautiously allowed it to rest beside him as he stared up at the ceiling.

There was only one bathtub per sex per house, not counting the prefects’ bathroom, so if there was anyone was outside waiting the ceiling would begin to flash warnings and the mirror would begin scolding after five minutes. If you ignored the warnings you were promptly spat out of the water in an unceremonious explosion of scalding water and steam that may or may not actually land you _outside_ the bathroom without your clothes. Back when he had Crabbe and Goyle, Draco would assign them to chase off any potential bathees while he took his time. And if anyone complained, Crabbe and Goyle would get in line the next time the offender bathed so as to remind them who was the Slytherin king. He didn’t have that luxury anymore, but in the middle of the afternoon on a weekend Draco knew he wouldn’t be bothered for a while.

The patterns and painted scenes on the ceiling shifted and swirled and his eyelids drooped. Snakes slithered through the painted fields into painted caves and swam in painted rivers that twinkled in the light of painted moonbeams. The water bubbled and steam filled his senses. His arms floated. His vision grew fuzzy and someone started sobbing. Draco didn’t notice it at first, he was so captivated by the hypnotic pattern of snakes in the ceiling. But its distant sound grew louder, and chaotic voices started to babble. Draco stirred, aware that he was falling asleep. He hadn’t taken his potion, so that was a terrible idea.

His body wouldn’t move. _Damn it._ Was he already asleep? The snakes on the ceilings slithered down the walls and across the floor, scattering into dark corners and vanishing. The sobbing continued. Aunt Bellatrix cackled somewhere over his right shoulder. Draco struggled.

_Wake up. Wake up._

The shadows started moving. Draco’s skin crawled. The bathwater froze his fingertips, then the palms of his hands, then his forearms—

Something moved in the water on his left side. His arm tingled. Draco couldn’t turn his head to look at it. 

_It's only the shadows. Trick of the light-_

A scream melted into a screeching hiss, a cold hand clamped the back of his neck, and shadow exploded out of the water.

A cry tore from his throat and Draco jerked. He slipped and fell under the water, then burst back out, spluttering. Light danced in the room. The snakes had returned to their proper places on the ceiling. The water was warm. Draco sat shuddering, clenching his knees with his hands, and then dared a glance downwards.

The dark mark was still.

But of course it was. _He_ was dead.

Shivering despite the warmth of the water, Draco got out and toweled off. An unnatural wind rushed through the bathroom, whistling from the direction of the closed door, sweeping his clothes into the water. Draco swore and grabbed his wand before it flew away as well, blocking the wind. Laughter broke out from the other side and footsteps scampered away. Keeping his arm pressed against his body, the towel preventing skin-to-skin contact, Draco summoned his clothes and emerged, dripping, from the bathroom, the damp cloth of his shirt a protective shield around his left forearm.

He wrote another letter on Sunday with some meaningless rambles about Quidditch and vanishing potions. He caught himself chewing his fingernails in the back of Transfiguration. More than one professor called him out for daydreaming, eliciting cruel snickers.

_Daydreaming,_ Draco put venom into the word with a glare in the professors’ general directions. _As if._

Somehow, his grades did not slip. It was with a feverish determination that he continued to study, desperately fighting for his place at the top as a Malfoy. He developed a habit of knocking his knuckles against the bedpost in his room when he studied alone. The noise helped him forget the emptiness. He tried studying in common rooms, just to be near some people, but after three hexing attempts within an hour, one successfully making his chair buck him to the floor and then scuttle into a corner, he gave that up.

He missed Severus. Draco’s godfather had been cagey and simultaneously distant and overbearing, yes, but at least Draco had been able to trust him, and been able to trust him with his life, no less. Draco had hated him (along with almost everyone) for most of sixth year, but in the living nightmare that followed - Severus' presence always calmed and soothed and lessened the terror.

Now, Draco felt that the professors were looking for excuses to fail him. He refused to give them those excuses, and became much more adept at pretending to pay attention when his mind refused to focus. Another week slipped by. It was October. Draco tried and failed to write another letter, unable to come up with anything but desperate pleas and angry sentences implying betrayal. How dare they keep him in suspense? Did they not realize how much he needed reassurance that they had not fallen victim to the danger surrounding their manor?

Down to his last bottle of potion, Draco lay awake in bed, rolling it between his palms. How stupid of him, worrying about himself and the children of angry relations. The manor was where the real danger lay, even with the extensive protective charms. If anyone broke in, the magic-limiting curses on his parents would prevent them from protecting themselves.

He told himself that it was senseless to believe anything could happen to his parents without him hearing about it. A note form the ministry would come, surely, even if it didn’t appear on the front pages of the Daily Prophet ( _Malfoy Manor Disappears in Explosion of Epic Proportions! War Heroes say, “Good Riddance!”)_ , and the other students wouldn’t hesitate to rub his face in it. Infuriated families of Death Eaters and/or war heroes couldn’t get to his parents, not without his knowledge. They couldn’t.

They _couldn’t._

 

_“What’s he doing?” Draco hissed, staring as Lucius sat staring at the ground, chains looped around his arms and legs in the trial room, giving out names, locations, hiding places._

_“Hush, Draco,” Narcissa whispered back, gripping his left hand tightly. “He’s protecting us.”_

_“Protecting us? But he’s giving them away.” Why couldn’t she understand? _

_“We must stay in the Ministry’s good graces,” Narcissa’s voice trembled._

_“We defected!”_

_“I’m afraid that isn’t good enough, Darling.” She stroked the back of his hand. Her face, pale and pinched with hollowed cheeks, stayed stoically expressionless. “Not good enough to keep us out of Azkaban.”_

_“But Potter—”_

_“Potter is influential where the law is grey. I’m afraid, in this matter, it isn’t.”_

_“They’ll never forgive this, Mother. Never.”_

_Narcissa squeezed his hand in response and gave the tiniest of nods. She knew. They would have to look over their shoulders for the rest of their lives. Draco felt naked without his wand, angry that it was still in Potter's possession._

_“Draco Malfoy!”_

_Narcissa jumped. Draco froze._

_Shacklebolt’s voice thundered. “The court calls on Draco Malfoy.”_

_Narcissa stopped stroking Draco’s hand. She gripped it between both of her own. “He wasn’t—” she started._

_Draco stood quickly and tried to pull away from her. She didn’t let go._

_“Come to the stand,” said Shacklebolt, as the chains slipped from Lucius and guards muscled him from the room._

_Narcissa stood up. “He wasn’t to testify today,” she said, all signs of frailty gone, her words commanding as her lip curled in disdain._

_“All the same, he is needed,” said Shacklebolt. “To verify Lucius Malfoy’s words.”_

_“This is uncalled for—” Narcissa began._

_Draco turned to her, getting between her line of sight to Shacklebolt. “It’s all right, Mother.” She looked into his eyes. Some of the strength left and she let his hand slip from hers. Draco went into the pit, heart in his throat, eyeing the chair._

_“Have a seat,” Shacklebolt said._

_“Is this necessary?” Narcissa protested again. “He’s only a boy—”_

_“He’s of age,” said Shacklebolt. “And I don’t think I need to remind the court that this ‘boy’ is also a Death Eater.” He pointed his quill at Draco’s covered arm._

_Draco sat and flinched as the magical chains wound up around his limbs. The chains bunched his sleeves, revealing the head of a serpent on his left forearm. Draco flicked his gaze away from it. Shacklebolt proceeded to read him a copy of Lucius’s testimony, asking confirmation questions. Draco, contrary to his father, sat straight, looked into his face, and answered coldly through dry lips and a parched throat._

_“Yes. Yes. Yes. I don’t have that information personally. Yes. Yes. Perhaps, I’m not certain. Yes. I’ve heard of it, so perhaps. Yes. Yes. Yes.”_

_They ran through lists of suspected Death Eaters. He asked Draco multiple times to confirm Lucius's groundbreaking claim that Death Eaters never became Death Eaters under the Imperius Curse._

_"That's true."_

_"Are you certain?"_

_Draco waxed sarcastic. "You tell me, Minister._ _Why in Merlin's name would he not want bring into his inner circle those who he could only control through curses? Why even bother having an Inner Circle in the first place?"_

_Shacklebolt leaned forward and lowered his voice. Those sitting next to Shacklebolt must have heard him, but he was speaking to Draco and not the court when he said quietly, "Watch your tone, lad." And his eyes were almost pitying. Draco set his jaw and glared at him until the pity left and Shacklebolt sat up, reading off Death Eater names._

_“Yes. Yes. Yes. Y—”_

_Draco faltered and stopped. Shacklebolt looked away from the list and peered down at him. He repeated the name._

_“Signius Bulstrode.”_

_Draco’s tongue was dry. He swallowed. This was Pansy’s godfather. She adored him._

_“Draco Malfoy,” Shacklebolt leaned forward again. “You are required to answer.”_

_“I can’t—” Draco cleared his throat. “I can’t be sure. No. I don’t believe so.”_

_Shacklebolt’s eyes were like hard black marbles. Draco was relieved that the pity was gone, but he didn't like this change either. “Do you require veritaserum, Mr. Malfoy?”_

_“No,” Draco said, too quickly. It wasn't a real threat. The use of Veritaserum for testimonies was unreliable, and thus forbidden...though that didn't necessarily mean they would obey the laws in this instance. The entire system was a shambles. Draco tightened the locks on his emotions and thought,_ I’d like to see you try. _He didn’t dare look at his mother. “I don’t believe Bulstrode is a Death Eater.”_

_“A moment ago you said you couldn’t be sure.”_

_“I don’t believe he is a Death Eater.”_

_“Mr. Malfoy,” Shacklebolt folded his hands and leaned forward. “Your father denounced him as surely as the others. Is it possible that he is telling falsehoods? Is he hoping to save his own skin by falsely accusing innocent wizards of being sympathizers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”_

_“No!”  Bravado evaporating, Draco mentally kicked himself for allowing the frantic racing of his heart bleed its tremulous tones into his voice. He subconsciously leaned forward. “No, I only meant – I didn’t know every Death Eater, personally. There were some I’d never seen before. There were some I never saw at all, not – not clearly, I only meant – I never witnessed Bulstrode taking part in…anything.”_

_Blood raced in his ears. Draco shook from the effort to keep still and look calm. Papers rustled, and Shacklebolt conferred with his counterparts._

_Desperately, Draco added, “My father knows more than I do. I could easily be mistaken. I’m only giving my opinion. The fact is I never saw Bulstrode. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t a sympathizer.”_

_It was so terribly backwards. Draco was not meant to protect his father. His father was not meant to need protecting._

_“And so you think he may be a Death Eater,” Shacklebolt prodded. Draco didn’t answer. With warning in his voice, Shacklebolt said, “Mr. Malfoy…”_

_“Yes. He could be,” Draco muttered, his gaze falling to the floor before he could stop it._

I’m sorry, Pansy.

_She didn’t get to hear his apology, though, because Bulstrode was arrested, the notes instantly stopped coming, and anything he sent to her returned unopened._

 

Draco jerked as the memory became too real – he’d nearly fallen asleep. With shaking hands he took a sip of potion, carefully gauging the amount (he calculated he had three nights’ worth left) and closed his eyes, relishing the smooth chocolate taste that reminded him of Christmas and home.

_Good riddance,_ he told himself. _Pansy knows I couldn’t help it. It’s not my fault her godfather was a Death Eater. He had a choice, unlike some of us. She’d have done the same thing._

He didn’t exactly miss her. They had fallen out during their sixth year, anyway. He had fallen out with most everyone his sixth year, though Crabbe and Goyle had still shadowed him and done as he asked. He and Pansy had been good friends, that was all; friends with benefits, really, with all the snogging and petting they did in private and sometimes in public. But that was over now, and after his sixth year he knew it couldn’t have gone anywhere anyway.

_Please be all right._

He turned the Malfoy emblem over in his hand and pressed it to his lips. The engraving felt rough.

_Please be all right._

*

The torture alleviated suddenly on Monday morning. Breakfast ended and students began to file from the hall, the bells giving the ten-minute warning for morning classes ringing. Draco, unable to choke down any breakfast, worrying about his parents and the quiz he had probably failed yesterday despite his best efforts to think about things other than healthy-but-dead _avada kedavra_ corpses. He guiltily worried about the single dose of potion he had remaining as he sipped at a cup of tea, trying and failing to block out the sound of Harper boasting about his Quidditch Captain status and that weekend’s practice sessions. Draco stood up and grabbed his bag to head to class and nearly jumped out of his skin as an owl, gliding on silent sings, landed beside him.

"Salazar!" It was his eagle-owl, now being used as the family owl. And yes, its name was Salazar. A terribly cliché name for a Slytherin's owl, but Draco had only been eleven when he'd named it.

Salazar plopped down a small wooden box not much larger than a new wand’s case, painted with a shifting multi-colored illustration of a serpent transfiguration spell in action. Draco went cold and his knees went weak. He sat back down and gripped the box, no longer hearing the warning tones of the bells or Harper's boasts. Tears of relief stung his eyelids.

_They’re all right. They’re all right._

He had to get to class. Draco's fingers tingled with a burning desire to open the box that moment, but he didn’t trust his emotions, and he wanted a long stretch of time in private. It would be better to wait until that afternoon. Reluctantly, Draco slipped the box into his bag where it nestled against his transfiguration textbook and scratched the owl under its beak. “Go wait in the owlery,” he told it. Salazar nipped at his fingers and obeyed. Draco arrived in class without any memory of how he had gotten there. The day stretched by agonizingly long. Even Defense Against the Dark Arts held no interest for him as he fidgeted, reaching into the bag at frequent intervals just to remind himself that the box was still there. At the same time, Draco felt invincible for the first time since the attack. His neighbor attempted to jinx him in transfiguration and he blocked it with a bored flick of his wand, not even feeling disturbed that the student dared to attack in the open, in full view of the other students, and in the presence of a teacher – even if the professor’s back was turned at the time.

He bolted out of charms as the last bell rang, deciding at the last minute to head to the clock tower instead of the dungeons, as it was closer. He removed the box from his bag and held it close to his chest, fingering the clasps. He held his wand in his other hand – he kept it drawn at all times, now. He turned a corner.

“Oh look, Malfoy’s got a present from his mummy!” Harper loomed ahead of him and Draco skidded to a stop. “What does it hold? Chocolates flavored with Essence de Cowardice? Ode to Repulsive slugs?”

Draco’s gaze flickered over Harper. If he'd wanted bodyguards this year, he might have considered Harper for the job to replace Vince and Greg, though Harper didn't quite live up to their imposing size, and Draco himself was slightly taller. He noted the drawn wand and the four fifth-and-sixth year Slytherin students behind him. Unconcerned, Draco said impatiently, “Get out of my way, Harper.” Of all the moments to delay him, did they really have to choose _this_ one?

“A little touchy are we, Malfoy?” Harper smirked. “Is there something banned in that box? As a prefect,” he flashed his badge, “I’m going to have to insist you hand it over.”

_Damn it,_ Draco glared at the badge, protectively pressing the box against his chest. How had he missed the fact that Harper was a prefect? He hadn’t even considered or missed his own lost power as one, except to compare bathtub sizes. “Are prefects in the practice of confiscating private mail, now?” Draco drawled, stalling for time. He leaned against the wall, holding his wand out of sight behind his back. “How pathetic.”

“Only for worms and traitors,” Harper said. “You’re both, which makes it doubly necessary. Hand it over.” He leaned close, sniffing. “Mmm, your mum makes the contents herself, doesn't she?"

Daro narrowed his eyes. "What of it?"

"I could tell. Smells of cowardly tart.”

Draco stiffened. He bit his tongue and tasted blood. He took a breath. “Don’t insult my mother.”

Harper smiled. “Defensive, eh, Malfoy? Everyone knows the real reason you got off. People think your father has high connections, but it’s not just him, is it? Thank your stars your slag-mum's so popular with the mudbloods—”

Draco whipped out his wand. “ _Cadento spectaculi!”_ Harper flew backwards, legs kicking. He fell spectacularly. The remaining Slytherins scattered to avoid Harper’s flailing, drawing their own wands. “ _Furnunculus!_ ” Draco spat in their general direction and then he fled, throat throbbing in anger and his face flaming.

He thought he had never felt so satisfied in his life.

“Go ahead and run, Malfoy!” Harper shouted. “Like you cowards always do!”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he spun around and reflected the oncoming jinx, causing the offending Slytherin girl to dive to the floor to avoid it. Draco didn’t stop running until he had climbed into the small dusty space among the gears and wheels of the clock. Breathing hard, he thought he might regret his actions later, but for now he was too angry. Was that really the sort baseless gossip circling now, or was it just Harper?

He spent a few minutes looking out over the Hogwarts main courtyard fuming. After calming down (slightly), he ran his fingers over the box and opened it. Three potion bottles lay cushioned in velvet. Chocolates and sweets filled the remaining space. A folded letter lay on top. Draco snatched it up and opened it, taking care to not tear the paper.

_My dear Draco,_

_I apologize that we have not written sooner. We were having difficulties getting our letters through._

_I’m so glad to hear that your year has gotten off to such a good start. It sounds as though your classes will be more than sufficient to complete your education. McGonagall is indeed a strong, capable woman. It sounds as though Hogwarts will thrive under her leadership. You would do well to show her the respect she deserves. Give her my regards._

_Your father congratulates you on your marks, as do I. Have you considered rejoining the Quidditch team? You are a fabulous Seeker that I’m sure the team would benefit, especially if the pickings are a little slim this year. It would be a shame if someone of your athletic talents went to waste. Of course, if you choose to instead pursue other hobbies, I’m sure they will also be a worthwhile use of your time. Your abilities will certainly benefit the wizarding world greatly._

_I remember the Lovegood girl. She seemed like a very nice thing. It may do you well to be friendly with her, and perhaps her other acquaintances. Your father and I are doing the same and doing our best to clearly communicate our intentions._

_I am pleased that you find the flavors enjoyable. For this batch I had to revert to the old standbys (it’s good for the true flavors to present themselves, sometimes), but I will send raspberry the next time if I can. Grandfather has mercifully been quiet, though he’s started this odd habit of demanding that we paint in a house elf for him. Rather absurd, don’t you agree? I tried reasoning with him once, explaining that paintings have no need for house-elves, but of course he didn’t listen. I would be tempted to move him to a more remote corner of the house if it wouldn’t be so disrespectful. And besides, we know what a great ruckus he would cause if there were ever intruders. Remember that time common pickpockets attempted to break in? His shouts alone were enough to send them running, and he raised the entire household._

_I am pleased to say that Nippy is settling in quite well. She seems very eager to please, except she can’t seem to get over Great-Aunt’s German heritage. If she tries to serve us sauerbraten one more time I’m afraid your father might gift her with an entire wardrobe._

_We are so proud of you, Draco. I trust the other students are not giving you too much trouble. How is your nose?_

_Love,_

_Mother_

Draco drank in the sight of Narcissa’s handwriting, drank in the sound of her voice in his head. He re-read the letter, more slowly, and this time a small frown spread across his face. The entire letter sounded like her, but…not. It felt cryptic somehow, and far too short. Why give that story about Grandfather being an alarm system? Why not just come right out and say, “We are safe, darling, don’t worry”? It wasn’t like Narcissa to beat around the bush. And the last line, asking about his nose. Draco at first panicked, thinking she had somehow heard about the ambush. But, no…he relaxed. It was a reference to his promise to keep it clean. It sounded like a joke, wording it that way. But Narcissa rarely joked. Why not just ask if he was staying out of trouble?

Out of all of these oddities, though, the first line was the strangest. “We were having difficulties getting our letters through”? What the hell did that mean? Salazar was in top shape. he had traversed the path from the manor to Hogwarts countless times. The weather had been impeccable.

Draco shook his head, studying the next oddly out-of-place lines. “Your father and I are doing the same.” With what, Luna’s acquaintances? Draco snorted, irritated. Yes, his mother remembered the Lovegood girl. It would be hard to forget any of their prisoners. But “she seemed like a very nice thing”? What a load of rubbish. Narcissa hadn’t spoken a single word to her; hadn’t laid eyes on her for more than fifteen seconds. She obviously wanted Draco to cozy up to the “good” wizards, like Luna and McGonagall.

And McGonagall, that was another thing. “Give her my regards”? As if she and the headmistress were old friends?

“Right, Mother, I’ll get right on that,” Draco grumbled. “The next time I’m having a friendly chat with McGonagall I’ll just add, ‘Oh, and my mother, whom you have never spoken to in your life, says hello.’”

And the potions. Draco took one out and sniffed it, wincing at the rancid smell. There was a reason Narcissa so carefully flavored them. “What the _hell_?” Draco threw the potion back in the box and covered his eyes.

He regained his senses after a few moments, picking up the letter again, throat constricting. There was something wrong. That much was certain. But for whatever reason, Narcissa didn’t feel she could say so. But she was just as Slytherin as Draco. She would have found a way to tell him, in the letter, somehow. And he would find it.

Draco leaned back against the wall, looking up at the rafters. “The letters aren’t getting through,” he murmured to himself. “They are cozying up to people. The potions can’t be flavored.” He closed his eyes, repeating the strange lines to himself in a chant. Then his eyes opened wide.

“Merlin. Those bloody meddling _twats_.”

It was the ministry. It had to be. They were intercepting their letters. Draco clenched his fists. Narcissa's letter, sitting there, looked dirty now that he knew the ministry had read it. But for what? To ensure that the Malfoys weren’t plotting to blow up Hogwarts for good? To stop the assassination plot on McGonagall? Were they shredding the ones that they thought contained secret instructions for the transfiguration of half-bloods into pigmies? Did they think the potions were poison?

Draco laughed from the sheer absurdity and broken despair. Yes, they probably thought the potions were poison, which was why mother had to allow the flavor and smell of the ingredients through so the Ministry could easily tell they really were just sleeping potions. Bloody _brilliant._ Draco could see the headlines now.

“ _Malfoy Heir Displays Weakness for Sleeping Aids! What other dark addictions does the family house?”_

_Draco!_ Draco could imagine Lucius’s scolding. _Forget the Daily Prophet. Don’t you realize what this means? What danger this poses?_

Draco thought through the contents of his earlier two letters. If the ministry was reading them, looking for excuses to question him – had he written anything dangerous? He couldn’t remember. Well, he _had_ called McGonagall an old codger, or something similar, but they could hardly discredit him for an opinion like that, could they?

Oh yes, they could.

Draco ground his teeth. Speaking of McGonagall…he needed to go see her. Now. Or he really would be in trouble. Draco sighed, replacing the letter in the box and the box in the bag. Then he squeezed out of the small space and headed towards the Headmistress’s office.

He didn’t know the password, so he lurked outside until the gargoyle turned and Professor Sinistra emerged. She gave him a surprised look, and Draco quickly suppressed his own. He wasn’t used to seeing the astronomy teacher in the halls. She usually spent the majority of her time outdoors. But—Draco remembered now—of course. She was the new Gryffindor Head of House.

“I need to see the Headmistress,” Draco said.

“Does she know you’re coming, Mr. Malfoy?” Sinistra asked.

“No,” said Draco.

“Then I’m afraid it will have to wait. She is in a meeting—”

“It’s important.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“I hexed someone. Possibly several someones.”

Draco relished the startled worry in Sinistra’s eyes. “What? Who?”

“I need to see the Headmistress,” Draco repeated.

Sinistra quirked an eyebrow. “All right then, on your own head be it.” She moved out of his way and gestured towards the stairs.

“Thank you.” Draco moved past her and started up, formulating how best to present the situation. If he was fortunate, Harper and the others wouldn’t have had time to complain yet, being too busy trying to cure the clumsiness and boils at Madam Pomfrey’s. Draco reached the top of the stairs. McGonagall’s door was open, and she was speaking to a black-haired wizard that had his back turned. They were sitting at her desk. McGonagall’s gaze went to him and she stopped mid-sentence.

“Professor Sinistra let me in—” Draco began, and then his mouth stopped working and he stiffened, because the wizard turned around in his seat.

The wizard at least had the decency to look similarly surprised, but he recovered first. “Malfoy.”

Draco gave a stiff nod. “Potter.”

The two ex-arch-enemies stared at each other. The silence would have become awkward, but McGonagall, whose eyebrows were bunching together in disapproval did not allow the interruption to last long. “What do you need, Mr. Malfoy?”

“I need to speak with you,” Draco managed, still looking at Potter. He still wore those same glasses, but looked completely different somehow. Maybe it was the lack of a school uniform and the addition of professional robes. The old feelings of jealousy rose up. Potter; always one step ahead. Didn’t even feel the need to officially finish his education.

“If it’s me you came to speak to, perhaps you had better stop staring at Potter,” McGonagall said, sarcasm tinging her voice. Draco looked away with difficulty. “And before you ask, I am not going to make him leave. You may say what you need to say now. And before you protest—” Draco closed his mouth. “—you should have thought about that before coming up here uninvited.”

Draco realized he was clenching his teeth. He forced himself to relax, forced himself to act as though Potter was not there. “I just thought you should know,” he said. “That I hexed Harper and a few others earlier today using _cadento spectaculi_ and _furnunculus._ ”

Potter’s eyebrows shot up so high that Draco could see the movement in his peripheral vision. McGonagall didn’t change expression.

“May I ask why?”

Perhaps he would have told her. Perhaps he would have pushed the blame on the other Slytherins, describing in detail the foul implications, the slander of his mother, the use of authority to intimidate. He could have played the victim.

But not with Potter sitting there.

“They were being rude,” said Draco, lifting one eyebrow. “I didn’t like their tone.”

“I see,” McGonagall studied him for a moment. “I suppose you do not need reminding that the use of hexes against other students is strictly prohibited?”

Sarcastic solemnity dripped from Draco’s voice. “I am aware.”

Potter shifted. Draco glanced at him. Potter stared at the ground, rolling his wand between his fingers, a slight flush creeping up his neck. Merlin, was Potter _embarrassed_? How extraordinary. Draco didn't think he'd ever seen the cocky, proud, too-good-for-his-own-good Harry Potter embarrassed before. The last time Draco had set eyes on him had been when Potter invited him to dual so he could win his hawthorn wand back. He hadn't looked the least bit uncomfortable then, just very matter-of-fact. Draco had accepted the instant Potter offered, with accusation in his tones. He wouldn't have needed to dual Potter if Potter hadn't taken his wand in the first place. Really. Draco had just saved his life, refusing to confirm his identity, stalling them just long enough so that they could get away. Draco had cowered in the Malfoy Manor Skirmish, not willing to aid their escape, not willing to stop them, fearing the consequences of both. And Potter had had the  _gall_   to wrest his wand away.

_No_! The stab of betrayal and disbelief had run deep, and Draco had been too stunned to even try to curse Potter away. No, he wouldn't, he would not possibly - not after Draco had helped them, not after he'd defied Bellatrix, Potter would not take away his only source of protection.  _No, not my wand - not my wand \- you bastard!_ _  
_

“Indeed." said McGonagall. "As it is, I am already aware of the incident.” Damn it. “You may report to Professor Slughorn, who has also been filled in, and will arrange for your detention.”

Draco nodded. Potter glanced up at him, and yes - he definitely looked embarrassed. More than embarrassed, he almost looked ashamed. But ashamed of _what_? Draco threw him a confused glance as he turned to leave.

“Malfoy?”

He glanced back. McGonagall peered at him.

“Are you certain there is nothing more you would like to tell me?”

“Positive, professor.”

“Very well then. You may go.”

Draco obeyed. He heard their conversation resume in a low, nearly indiscernible murmur. What was Potter here for? Wasn’t he currently training to be an Auror? Perhaps—a smile twisted Draco’s face at the thought—perhaps he was here because Draco had hexed some students. Perhaps he was here to investigate. Not likely. But even more intriguing than his purpose here, why did Potter look so uncomfortable? Draco hesitated at the exit to the outside hall, wishing he could use an eavesdropping charm without McGonagall noticing, or at least for a pair of those…what were they called?...extendable ears that had been so popular fifth year. Draco contemplated creeping back up the stairs until an unwelcome thought whispered,

_The Weasely twins built those._

And then Fred and George’s laughter seared through his memory and the sight of Fred’s cold, still corpse, and the sound of George’s agonized scream when they’d found him – Draco had been one hall over – and then the newspaper photograph of the funeral and the pain –

Draco’s head spun and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. He put out a hand to steady himself against the wall. 

He didn’t make a habit of memorizing the Weasley childrens’ names. There were, what, four or five other, older brothers? Draco had no idea what they were called. While the twins were at school he didn’t bother trying to remember their names. They were just the red-haired troublemaking gits.

But their names were branded in his memory forever now.

The murmurs had stopped. Draco hastily left.


	3. Chapter 3

Slughorn bustled around his office, picking things up and putting them down again, glancing at Draco out of the corner of his eyes, rambling to himself.

“Yes—indeed—hexing, very serious business—could have hurt someone—I unfortunately have a few days leave for an academic gathering—presenting some research—it must be next week—I’ll see you down in the potions room, make it Thursday night directly after dinner—yes—overdue for cleaning—serious business—still in the infirmary—I’ll have to take points—make it 20, I think—“

Draco barely listened. He examined his fingernails, attempting to drudge up some sort of concern for the House loss. He didn’t feel sorry. Just very, very tired.

“May I go?” he asked, interrupting Slughorn’s tirade.

Slughorn looked more flustered than before. “Oh, yes, of course—Malfoy?”

Draco turned back, lips twitching with annoyance.

_So tired._

“You said you used _cadenta spectaculi_?” 

Draco nodded.

“Madam Pomfrey is having difficulty diminishing its effects. Did you do – anything – extra?”

“Extra,” Draco echoed. “Like what?”

“Well – a concentration potion, or some…extracurricular spellwork, or…?” Slughorn trailed off, his gaze falling.

Draco flinched involuntarily and moved his arm behind his back. “Nothing _extra_ ,” he said, deadpan. “I’m just that good.”

“Yes. Indeed. Well. Hexes are not, generally speaking, considered to be a valid area of develop—never mind. Yes. You may go. Thursday, next week, after dinner, in potions.”

*

_Dear Mother and Father,_

_I’m sorry the post is giving you difficulty. I will do my best to ensure that there is no obstructions on my end._ [Translation: message received. I will be careful.] _It is my hope that our correspondence can be passed rapidly from here on._ [Translation: Those bastards can’t bring us down for long.]

 _Unfortunately, now that Lovegood has your approval, she seems to have switched targets. She spends a great deal of time with Ginny Weasely, so I am no longer seeing much of her._ [Translation: Ginny Weasely would probably hex my ears off, so I’m leaving her alone.]

 _I have decided to not rejoin the Quidditch team. I’m sure the team would love to have me_ [Subtext: Deep sarcasm] _but to be honest, that sort of thing doesn’t really fit my interests anymore. Everything—the classes, Quidditch, even the school uniforms—feel rather childish and repetitive to me at this point. I simply want to finish my education._ [Subtext/addendum: and get out and start doing something useful, preferably away from ministry gits.] _Do you remember Harper? He filled in for me as Seeker sixth year. He’s team captain now. We have yet to have our first Quidditch match, so we’ll see if he’s worth the fuss he’s getting from the girls._

 _On that note, there are enough students interested this year that Professors Flitwick, Slughorn, and Podmore are collaborating to teach alchemy. There are very few of us attending the sessions, so it’s almost like an elite club for masters of Potions._ [Purpose: bending the truth to assure parents he is still upholding Malfoy pride and is still an elite member of Hogwarts society – which is complete rubbish, but they needn’t know that.] _Alchemy is much more theoretical than potions, and I am enjoying it quite a bit.*_

Their letters remained fairly short, often no more than a quick line or two, as both sides were not comfortable being too intimate with the ministry breathing down their necks, but they all were improving in communicating in code.

Narcissa:

 _We haven’t been able to get dragon-tear-infused wine for quite some time now. The importing merchants are getting sloppy._ [Translation: it’s hard enough to get this rarity with connections; it’s impossible when no one wants to associate with you.]

Draco:

 _My nose is quite well, and it’s so shiny McGonagall can see her reflection in it._ [Translation: I am not in trouble (possibly a lie).]

Narcissa:

 _It’s been terribly quiet in the house lately, so I have been having Nippy redecorate with old relics from storage._ _We found a small family of boggarts living in the attic – how startling! Besides that, it’s been quite enjoyable._ [Translation: the Aurors haven’t been harassing us lately.] (Draco wondered what shape the boggarts had taken upon discovery. He tried not to think about it. There were too many possibilities, each one equally horrible.)

Miracle of miracles, a note from Lucius:

 _Draco, we have at last received the special-order quills for my use, and so Narcissa insists that I drop you a line._ [Translation: My hands have stopped trembling quite so badly so my handwriting is legible now. (Alleviated stress from a lack of Aurors was probably the reason for this, or perhaps he was cutting down on his alcohol consumption. There was no way for Draco to know for sure, because he wasn’t certain why Lucius’s hands had started shaking in the first place.)] _So there you are. About your musings on what to do when the school year is out, you of course should remain at the manor for some time. There is no need to jump hastily into things. Lucius._ [Translation: Why are you talking about associating with the people who have been so horrible to us? (That wasn’t what Draco had been saying - quite the opposite actually – but Lucius of course jumped to the wrong conclusions.) You should just stay at home with us so we don’t have to worry.]

The notes, due to the interception, always came at least one day after they were dated, but it was better than that first month. Even so, if it weren’t for the fact that he needed to receive them to know his parents were all right, Draco almost wished the notes would stop coming. They were painful to read. His isolation was poignant. It made him irritable, disrupted his sleep, and inhibited his studying. The notes, rather than alleviating the loneliness, made it worse. They were the closest thing he had to human interaction, but they were _wrong_. They were too timid, too careful. They were nothing more than the physical act of touching hands or whispers of “I’m fine.” Draco found ways to inject hidden slights, sarcasm, anger, actual emotions into his notes, but Lucius and Narcissa remained careful, distant, and sickeningly above-board. Narcissa’s notes lacked what used to be her normal spark, her commanding presence, her stately sophistication, her irritated biting remarks (rarely directed at Draco himself). These were not real conversations. They didn’t sound like his parents.

_Dear Mother,_

_I am not complaining about the unflavored potions, but I am merely curious: was anything else left out? The effects seem to be lessening._

Draco frowned at the note, then ground it into a ball and threw it into the fire. No need to worry her. And the effects hadn’t been lessening, exactly. But for the past three nights in a row he’d woken, heart pounding, bedclothes soaked, arm tingling. And last night had been the worst; as if living in a nightmare, he’d only half-woken, unable to move, a ferocious burning in his arm. The burning left as he managed to wake himself up, but the terror did not go away like all the other nights. He’d sat up, rubbed his arm, dared to closely examine it. Using his wand for light, he’d looked all around, walked to and fro, and remained awake for a solid hour and a half before calming down enough to go back to sleep (after another dose of potion). He couldn’t keep taking double-doses and not tell Narcissa; he’d run out too quickly. If he could just find a way to get her to send him more without worrying her…but he had no ideas now.

Draco rubbed his hands together and glanced at the clock on the common room wall. He got up and made the short walk to the potions room for detention.

Slughorn’s irritating, jolly, grandfather-like laughter echoed up the corridor. Draco grimaced. It felt so out of place in the mysterious dark, with its arched ceilings and echoing sounds. Slughorn was adept at potions, but his interactive competitive teaching methods turned every class into some sort of lighthearted—albeit complicated—game, instead of the mysterious artform it had been under Snape. Draco slipped through the open doorway and stood just inside. His eyes widened for an instant and his hand tightened around his wand.

Ginny Weasely sat on top of one of the tables, leaning back on her hands with her legs crossed while Slughorn puttered around the desk with papers.

“—of course, of course, my girl,” said Slughorn. “Not a cheating bone in your body, is there? I’ll tell him so, of course. Just a jealous chap I’m sure. You’ll go far for certain—not that I’m saying I hope you’ll win of course. House Loyalties and all.” He shook his head and laughed again.

Draco spoke up. “Something funny, professor?”

Slughorn jumped and spun around. Ginny didn’t move. “Mr. Malfoy! Ah—oh, I completely forgot you were coming.”

Ginny slowly looked over her shoulder. Draco lounged against the cold stone wall. “Hello, Weasely. What are you doing here? Cozying up to my head of house, are we? How’s the Slug Club?”

“The club’s fine,” said Ginny in a tone too neutral to not be carefully measured.

“Now, I wouldn’t call it a club – more like a gathering good friends,” said Slughorn. They ignored him.

Ginny flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I’m here because Harper accused me of using Felix Felicis earlier today in a one-on-one match.”

“You played Harper? And it’s not even Quidditch season yet? Why, was there a crowd watching?”

Ginny’s eyes flashed. “He wanted the pitch even though we reserved it. So I fought him for it. And I beat him, fair and square.”

“You didn’t only beat him, you knocked him from his broom!” Slughorn chuckled again. Draco raised his eyebrows, and the youngest Weasely suddenly looked much less annoying. Ginny hopped off the table and started to the door. “My, I’d like to have seen his face—”

“You knocked Harper off his broom?” Draco clucked his tongue. “My, my, Weasely. I expected better from you. Do me a favor and at least knock out the git’s teeth next time.”

Ginny stopped at the door and eyed him, forehead furrowed. Slughorn stopped laughing and said nervously, “Now, now, let’s not advocate violence—”

They ignored him again. “What are you doing here?” Ginny asked.

“Detention,” said Draco loftily, smirking like it was a badge of honor. “For hexing the same.”

Realization and perplexity dawned on Ginny’s face in quick succession. “Oh is _that_ why he was in the hospital wing the other day?”

It was Draco’s turn to be confused, but he covered it up with a smirk. “You hadn’t heard?”

“No. I don’t think anyone has. He isn’t spreading it around.” Ginny nodded at Slughorn. “See you, professor.”

“Goodbye, Miss Ginevra.” Slughorn stood fidgeting after Ginny left, eyes darting about. “Charming, fiery young woman, isn’t she?”

“…sure.”

Slughorn cleared his throat. “Right. I thought we’d start in here, with the student cabinets.”

*

Draco had to admit, if one must do detention, Slughorn was the person to do it with. As practical as he was Slytherin, the professor didn’t mind if Draco used magic for the job – he figured that if the student was required to help, they may as well get as much done as possible. So Draco silently followed instructions, scrubbing away years of dried spilled ingredients, built-up grime, and dead flies. Slughorn seemed uncomfortable with silence, and his chatter filled the room as he organized his desk drawers.

“Haven’t seen this for quite some time – shocking how it piles up – will be quite a relief when it’s all cleared away –”

Draco chose not to respond, feeling indignant about the disorganization on Severus's behalf. He pulled out old volumes of potions texts (and one of history that was inexplicably mixed in) and set them aside. He started extracting potion-encrusted glassware (potions bottles, mostly, string sticks, small sample containers, a filter or two), scourgifying as he went.

“Careful,” admonished Slughorn from behind him. “Students, especially first-years, often fail to properly clean the bottles – there’s no telling how the potion will turn when it’s left for goodness knows how long.”

In synchronization with Slughorn’s warning, Draco ducked his head and dug deep into the cabinet, breathing in dust and cobwebs as he reached for an open vial with a full inch of deep purple sludge. The sludge growled at him. Draco raised his eyebrows and hesitated, then made a quick grab for the vial. His hand closed around the glass and the sludge leapt from it with a squelching sound. Moving like the world’s fastest amoeba, it skittered out of sight into the shadows. Draco glowered at the empty vial and cleared out some space before diving back into the cabinet. The sludge cowered in a corner, growling. It lashed out at him as he reached for it, smacking his fingers with cold, clammy tentacles before it shot past his ear like a bullet. Draco jumped and cursed, banging his head on the upper shelf. He withdrew, rubbing the crown of his head.

“Trouble?”

Draco glanced over at Slughorn. He looked bemused. Draco scowled. “How do I immobilize renegade potions?”

Slughorn shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know, if I don’t know the identity of the potion.” Draco ran his left hand along his wand, thought for a moment, then pushed his upper body back into the confines of the cabinet. “Careful,” Slughorn said, voice muffled. “Spells for immobilizing people won’t work, and we don’t want that cabinet broken.”

Draco lit his wand and slowly moved it around the cabinet. He found the sludge in a far corner, in a fortress made of cobwebs and a corked vial of frosted glass. The light reflected off of its shiny surface. Draco checked for spiders before reaching in and clearing away the cobwebs with his left hand, keeping his wand pointed at the sludge. The blob, as he closed in, pressed itself into the corner and started growling again. Draco hesitated, then lunged. He hit his head again and the sludge jumped. Cornered, it knocking against the vial of clouded glass and it cracked against the back wall, toppling over over. Draco’s fist closed around the sludge and he hit it with a dissolving spell at the same time. It disintegrated, coating his fingers in cold gloop.

The vial wasn’t made of clouded glass. White mist seeped from the crack in a thin stream.

“Rep—”

The vial exploded. White mist engulfed his gloop-covered hand and forearm. Draco cursed and jerked backwards, eyes stinging.

“Malfoy! What—!”

His vision blurred. Flaming heat tore up his arm. Draco cried out and dropped his wand, gripping his wrist and blinking away reflexive tears. Slughorn ran to him, reaching for his arm. Draco jerked back in dizzy alarm.

“Don’t be foolish, boy,” Slughorn said, almost harshly. The burning sensation got worse. Perhaps (a spark of hope) there would be scarring. Draco didn’t resist as Slughorn summoned a potion from across the room and pulled back Draco’s sleeve. The skin on his arm and wrist blistered and peeled, red and purple and scaley, except—Draco’s stomach plummeted and he broke out in a cold sweat. The dark mark stood out, oily and black and unaffected.

The sensation spread up past his elbow. “Shirt off,” Slughorn ordered. Draco blinked at him. “Now!” Draco obeyed, fingers clumsy and shaking, and Slughorn slathered the entirety of his arm and shoulder with a creamy potion the consistency of pudding. The angry burning disappeared.

“There now,” Slughorn backed away, wiping his hands clean on a handkerchief, then wiping sweat from his face with the same. “You’d better go see Madam Pomfrey. I believe you have shards of glass in the skin of your face. You can finish your detention next week. I’ll finish up in here. Meet me by the potion storeroom. Ah—” he held up a hand as Draco moved to redress. “Don’t disturb the potion or it will spread again.”

Draco backed out of the room. Once out of the sight of Slughorn he cast a shielding charm around his potion-slathered limb, put his clothes back on, and stole up to Madam Pomfrey’s without being seen.

*

Draco stared at his cup of cooling tea through half-closed lids. Breakfast chatter clouded the air. Students sat on either side of him today, with a few feet of empty space between him and them, and no-one in front. Draco propped his chin in his hand and swept his gaze across the other tables; a watchful habit that had saved him from many a hex. A flash of red hair caught in the sunlight from the windows. Ginny Weasely sat down at the Ravenclaw table, next to Luna Lovegood. A wide berth of empty space surrounded her as well, but that was probably due to the fact that papers were spread every which way and Luna leaned over a long scroll, shoulders hunched, hair falling on either side of her face, fingers tight on her quickly-moving quill. Ginny looked at her for a few moments and then nudged her shoulder. Luna looked up, a smile breaking through a pouty frown of concentration. Draco watched their lips moving. Luna’s face fell at one point, then she smiled again, unrolling the scroll to the beginning and pointing. Ginny took the scroll from her, spread it across the table, took up her own quill, and started to read. Luna took a bite of toast and sat back. She looked up, saw Draco, and smiled again.

Owls burst through the windows. Draco jerked his gaze away from Luna, flustered at being caught staring, and snatched up an envelope that had dropped on his plate. He braced himself for a depressingly guarded note from his parents as he extracted the paper, even as he found himself wondering what Luna was working so hard on. It wasn’t the right time of year for difficult exams and papers. She was in Ravenclaw, though, so perhaps it was extra credit—

Draco unfolded the card and his thoughts left Luna as he stared at it, confused. The card was blank. Draco turned it over in his hand. The front and back were blank as well. He picked up the envelope. It, too, held no writing, except for his own name: Draco Malfoy.

Draco dropped the envelope and card simultaneously and jerked his hands back. He stared at them with suspicion. That was neither his mother’s handwriting nor his father’s. Draco glanced up, looking for Salazar. He wasn’t in sight. Draco glanced up and down the Slytherin table. No one was watching him, so he drew his wand and inserted it between the two sides of the card, pressing the blank pages open, searching for something he’d missed.

Nothing. No, wait—words appeared, as if they were being written by an invisible hand.

**Draco Malfoy.**

From the solid black letters, rusty red ink started to drip down, falling into more letters below.

**The wizarding world rejoices.**

**You are a dead man walking.**

The words filled with red ink and spilled over, running over the pages and turning them. Draco withdrew his wand and let the card swing shut. The ink continued to spread, covering the cover of the card. With an audible squirt, the ink burst from the pages. Draco scrambled backwards and stood. The ink ran across the table in rivulets.

“Hey!” A Slytherin girl squeaked, sliding further away, running into her friends on the bench to get away from the lazy, growing puddle. “What are you playing at—”

The card stopped spurting liquid. And then it exploded.

Screaming. “We’re being attacked! Blood! Blood!”

“It’s not blood,” Draco mumbled, getting a mouthful of the stuff, blinking it out of his eyes as it dripped down his hair. “It’s ink.” He spat out a sweet-tasting glob.

“It was Malfoy!” the cries went down the table. “It was Malfoy!”

Draco rubbed his sleeve across his face and watched as the shreds of his first ever personal death threat slowly dissolved in a pool of blood-red ink.

*

Draco stared at the table, chin in his hand, only half-listening to Podmore discuss the mechanics of human-animal configuration. His voice changed to buzzing and humming in Draco’s ears. He only wanted the day to be over. The day outside had turned grey, and the drab, foggy drizzle could be seen out every window. Draco’s nails still bore the remnants of the threat from this morning, and his ears rang with the renewed whispered speculations. And to top it off he still had the remaining hours of detention to look forward to. He didn’t hear the door behind him creak open, but he raised his head as silence fell.

“Professor Podmore.” Draco turned around. McGonagall stood there. “I beg your pardon, but will you please excuse Mr. Malfoy from class today?” The eyes of the class instantly switched targets.

“Of course, Headmistress,” said Podmore, looking puzzled. “Is there anything wrong?”

“Oh no, nothing that concerns you.” McGonagall beckoned. “Come, Malfoy.”

Conscious of the stares, Draco shoved his belongings into his bag, took up his wand, and followed McGonagall into the hall.

“Just follow me to my office, Malfoy.”

_What now?_

 “Is there something wrong, Professor?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said McGonagall, but the grim set of her mouth was not reassuring. “There’s someone from the Ministry’s Law Enforcement department to see you.” She stopped in front of the gargoyle. “Hippogriff.”

Draco stopped dead. McGonagall started up the steps, and then, realizing he wasn’t following, turned back around. “He’s not going to go away if you just stand there, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco hated how his voice wanted to shake. He wasn’t sure if he was afraid for himself or if something had happened at Malfoy Manor. “What’s he want?”

“He declined to share that information with me,” said McGonagall, her voice dry. “But I expect you’ll find out. Come now.”

Draco forced himself to follow her up the steps. A sandy-haired wizard with pursed lips stood with his hands clasped behind his back, studying the bookshelves. When they entered he turned around and gave Draco a smile that stretched his skin taunt across his cheeks.

“Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall said, “This is—”

“Arnold Peasegood, Hit Wizard with the Magical Law Enforcement Squad.” Interrupted the wizard, stepping forward. He offered his hand. Draco didn’t take it. Peasegood let his arm fall back to his side.

“Hit wizard?” McGonagall put a hand to her waist, eyes widening. “Is there something the matter?”

“Oh no, not to worry,” said Peasegood, looking a little too cheerful. “Just a cursory wand check. I see, Mr. Malfoy, that yours is already…drawn.” He looked at Draco’s hand, then back up, still smiling.

“I’ve just come from transfiguration class,” Draco said stiffly.

“I see. What was the subject?”

Draco studied him for several long seconds. He tightened his grip on his wand. “Transfiguration.”

Peasegood’s smile became strained. He held out a hand. “This won’t take but a moment.”

Draco didn’t move, and McGonagall spoke again, “May I ask what exactly you’re doing?”

“I’ve just said,” said Peasegood. “Cursory wand check. _Now_ , Mr. Malfoy.”

Reluctantly, hatred oozing from every pore, Draco handed his wand to the man, fixing him with a cold stare. “It’s all quite routine,” continued Peasegood. He held the wand to his eye like a telescope, then turned it over and examined it from every possible angle. “It’s all part of the probation for dark wizards such as yourself, Mr. Malfoy.”

McGonagall’s mouth twitched and her eyebrows rose. “I see. Can’t have them running rampant around Hogwarts, I suppose.” Draco forgot some of his anger in his surprise. McGonagall…looked annoyed. If he didn’t know better, he would think she was being sarcastic.

“Indeed not, ma’am,” said Peasegood. “ _Priori Incantatem!_ ” Draco breathed deeply to remain calm as previously-cast spells poured from its tip to the ground, Peasegood nodding and mumbling to himself. He patted his pockets, and then turned and used the inkwell and a pad of paper on McGonagall's desk. “I see evidence of a few hexes, Mr. Malfoy,” said Peasegood leveling him with that suspicious, friendly gaze. “Headmistress, were you aware that Mr. Malfoy cast the _cadento spectaculi_ and _furnunculus_ hexes?”

“Yes,” said McGonagall. “In fact, Mr. Malfoy informed us of the incident himself. He’s already been properly disciplined.”

Peasegood turned his gaze on McGonagall. “I would hope, Headmistress, that you would realize the appropriate course of action is to inform the Ministry of this sort of happenstance.”

“Indeed, Mr. Peasegood? Well with all due respect, if I were to report every single time the students inflicted harmless boils on one another you would have to create a new department and build a large addition to the ministry just to fit in all of the paperwork.”

Peasegood’s nostrils flared. “I beg your pardon, Headmistress, but students breaking the rules and Death Eaters using Dark Magic are two very different things.”

McGonagall drew herself up. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Peasegood, but students hexing students, as far as I am aware, is simply a matter of students hexing students. As every student is under my care, I will discipline every student as I see fit. Unless the Ministry creates several new ordinances, it is not within my duties as Headmistress to be their informant of the private happenings of this institution.”

Draco stared at her, completely amazed, looking between the tall, wizened Headmistress with flashing eyes and the squat, baby-faced inspector as they glared at one another. Peasegood’s eye twitched. “Very well, Headmistress,” he grumbled, shoulders souching. He turned back to Draco, smile and cheerful façade gone. “I also see you have cast an exceptionally large number of protective spells. Why is this?”

Draco lifted his chin, conscious of McGonagall’s inquisitive gaze. “I’m a seventh year. I’m in N.E.W.T. level Defense Against the Dark Arts. Defensive spells happen to be a large portion of the curriculum.”

“Even so, Mr. Malfoy, this is an incredibly enormous number. Been doing much work outside of class? Are you…preparing for something?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “As a matter of fact,” he said slowly, all but spitting out each syllable. “I am, sir.”

Peasegood’s smile nearly became a smirk. “And what might that be?”

Draco tilted his head forward as if to impart a great secret. “My N.E.W.T. exams.”

Peasegood’s smile melted into a scowl and then twisted back into a smile. “Very well then, Mr. Malfoy.” He cleared his throat and held out the wand. Draco took it back, still with his cold stare. Peasegood caught his fingers and Draco jerked back. “You seem flustered, Mr. Malfoy. Are those bandages on your other arm? And what happened to your hair?” It, too, bore the marks of the exploding card.

“Accident from detention, and an ink spill,” Draco said through stiff lips.

Peasegood opened his mouth again, but McGonagall cleared her throat and spoke before he could. “If everything appears to be in order…”

“Oh, yes, _quite_ in order.” Peasegood tore the piece of paper with his notes on it from the pad, bowed to McGonagall, and left the office.

McGonagall moved to her desk, putting away the pad of paper and replacing the quill in the inkwell. Draco started to leave. “Mr. Malfoy,” said McGonagall. He turned back. “I trust there is no other reason you need to use defensive spells?”

“No, professor.”

“Are you concerned about your safety at all?”

“Just about my exams, professor.”

She straightened, studying him. Draco looked into her eyes for a moment before turning his head away. “I hope you know you can come to me, should you need anything.”

“Of course, professor.”

“Do you mind if I ask you something, Malfoy?” Draco inclined his head. “What do you plan on doing once you leave Hogwarts?”

Draco fidgeted. “Go home, I suppose. My father wants me to return to the manor.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

Draco did not like the way she was looking at him. It wasn’t threatening, but at the same time he felt threatened. “I don’t want anything in particular.”

“I see. Well, you are talented, and a very bright wizard, Mr. Malfoy, and with determination I’m sure you can find a career path if you find that there is something in particular you wish to do.”

Draco didn’t have the energy to even pretend to smile. “May I go now?”

McGonagall nodded and Draco retreated.

*

Draco didn’t have to ask why Slughorn wanted him at the potion master’s storeroom. The door was open when he arrived, and a single glance showed shelves in disarray, vials and bottles scattered every which way on the shelves. The heavy, sharp scent of a thousand substances rolled over Draco as he edged inside.

“The organization unfortunately took a downward turn when Professor Snape—well.” Slughorn coughed and Draco bit down hard on the inside of his lower lip. “I’ve tried to keep it up, but I’m afraid his system is quite confusing. The records are a jumble. Here,” he handed Draco a large leather-bound book with loose spill-stained pages. “Flip to the back and start a new sheet. I’ll read off the potions and their quantities and you write them down. Need to keep careful track of these ingredients in case some go missing. Some are very rare, very valuable.” Draco took the book from him and opened it to the first clean sheet. He sat down in the doorway and put the quill to the page. Slughorn climbed up the ladder. The top shelf had been cleared and he began to move vials, calling them out as he did. “Goosegrass, adder’s fork, nightshade, moonstone, hellebore syrup, goosegrass, valerian, snake figs, more goosegrass…” Draco’s eyelids began to droop after several droning minutes of this. The list expanded and he added portion amounts and tally marks.

“One moment,” said Slughorn at last, grouping the recorded vials. Draco set down the quill and waited. “How is your arm, by the way?”

“It’s fine.”

“I wondered, Malfoy, if you could answer a question. Purely academic, you understand.”

“You can ask,” Draco said, doubtfully. _I may not answer, though._

“I could not help but notice that a certain – portion appeared unaffected.” Draco stiffened. “I wondered if perhaps it possesses some unique qualities of which we are unaware.” Draco stayed silent. “Just from an academic perspective, you know. The subject is of academic interest, but little else, so not many are asking and no one seems willing to answer.”

“Really.”

“Yes indeed. Perhaps you could inform me, my boy? Of the type of magic used? Of how the spell was cast? You are a very successful student. Does it impact your life in any way?”

Draco bit his tongue until he tasted blood. “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you, professor.”

“Come now, don’t be like that—”

“ _I don’t know_.” Draco emphasized each word as he watched a cockroach skitter across the floor under one of the shelves. He felt Slughorn’s gaze on the back of his neck. It was only when Slughorn turned to the shelves and grunted, “goosegrass” when Draco realize he had snapped the quill in half.

Another half-hour of potion ingredients passed in tense awkwardness. The time of his detention neared the end. Slughorn came down two steps in the ladder. Draco’s gaze wandered to the shelf nearest him, where a bottle labeled **_Lethe River Water_** sat. It was one of the rare, valuable substances. Used in forgetfulness potion, most commonly, but—Draco’s spine tingled. He had an idea.

“Unicorn horn,” said Slughorn. Draco didn’t hear him. “ _Unicorn horn_ ,” Slughorn repeated. Draco jumped and added a row to the column.

“Professor,” he said slowly, a few minutes later when Slughorn again paused to group the recorded ingredients. Slughorn didn’t respond. “Professor,” Draco repeated, louder.

“Hm! Yes?” Slughorn flicked a potion bottle and it let out a cheery _ting!_

“I wondered,” Draco looked away from the Lethe water. “Under what circumstances are students permitted to use the contents of this store room?”

Slughorn fumbled with vials. “That is a privilege restricted to a very few indeed. I suppose – they would have to be prospective potioneers, or other career paths that require a very especial knowledge of potions. And then they would have to be excellent students, of good repute, having shown a great interest in contributing to wider academia, beyond their required schoolwork. ” He paused. “Why do you ask?”

“I wondered if I would qualify.”

“Oh. Oh, dear. Well, the trouble is, it isn’t quite clear whether your intentions are…purely academic. I mean to say, it isn’t certain you’ve shown a great interest in academia.”

“Oh.” Draco doodled a stick-figure unicorn in the border of the page, waiting for the professor to speak again. His Slytherin instincts sensed a bargain brewing in the air. When Slughorn didn’t continue, Draco pressed, “What would I need to do? Do you have any suggestions?”

“A few,” Slughorn said immediately. “You are in the fortunate position to possess knowledge that many wizards do not. Most of You-Know-Who’s affiliates, while willing to tell any number of things about the inner workings of the group in return for privileges, lightened sentences, etc, there are very few willing to give more—sensitive details.”

He should have known. Draco put down the repaired quill, and said through tight teeth, “I told you I don’t know anything about the mark, professor.”

“Oh yes. Indeed.” Slughorn obviously didn’t believe him. “No matter. If you were to open yourself up for interviews, examinations, perhaps some tests, perhaps if you granted access to some memories—”

 _“Memories!_ ” Draco exclaimed. The rest of the list had been bad enough. Submitting himself as a lab rat to Ministry goons. But giving something as intensely personal as _memories_?

“Only relevant ones,” Slughorn said, as if that made it better. “There are several key moments that all of his affiliates refuse to disclose, no matter the offered reward. The initiation process, for example—”

Draco saw red. Fortunately for him and Slughorn both, the clock chimed nine o’clock. Draco jerked to his feet, still not seeing clearly, only half-hearing Slughorn exclaim over the time.

“Well, that concludes our time – shall I inquire about your—?”

“No,” Draco said. “No. Forget it.”  

“Are you sure?” Slughorn pleaded. “It could be quite beneficial, to academia and yourself – it would help put you in higher standing, I could grant you permission to this room – your future—”

“No.” 

Draco’s hands shook. Several pages from the front of the old book slipped out as his hold wobbled, spilling over the ground. Draco went down, chasing the sheets, shoving them into a pile, tearing some, wrinkling several. He dropped the quill and it rolled under the shelf. Draco swallowed a curse. He sat up and all but threw the book and pages at Slughorn, then he dove back down for the quill. Slughorn organized the pages, muttering, “Shame, shame…” Draco had to shove his arm under the shelf up to his shoulder to grab the quill. His eyes were level with the bottom shelf. Lethe water stared him in the face.

He had the quill. He sat up. He was between the water and Slughorn. The fingers of his other hand closed around the vial. Unnatural sharp cold pierced his skin. Draco dropped it into his front robe pocket as he got to his feet. He handed Slughorn the quill as he brushed by him and escaped to his room.

*

 _I’ve survived a whole month and a half,_ Draco realized as he stole through the silent castle early Saturday morning. _Nearly six_ _weeks and I haven’t been killed. That’s something._

As if acknowledging the beginning of a new month, the weather had taken a cold turn. There was frost on the windows and grass crunched under his feet. Draco stole down the hill, pausing by Reubus Hagrid’s hut. The giant had carefully layered straw around each sprout and covered the smaller ones with plastic. The entire plot looked so cheerful though that Draco suspected he had illegally cast warming charms. With nervous glances every few seconds at the window overlooking the garden, Draco walked along the rows, peeking under the plastic until he found and pulled out multiple sprigs of valerian. He put them in the bag at his side, next to the vial of piercing cold Lethe water. He then ravaged nearby plants and dug in the dirt a bit. The partially-frozen earth prevented him from leaving footprints. He slipped out of the garden and disappeared into the dripping fog of the Forbidden Forest.

*

A tender, quiet, complaining screech rent the air and a hard, chilly muzzle bumped into Luna’s palm.

“You’ve already had your bit, Saol,” she scolded the over-eager Threstral colt. “Come, Bàs. Come now,” she called to the other. She held her satchel with one hand as she crouched and held out her other hand. A small trickle of blood fell through her fingers and dropped to the ground from the pig’s heart in her hand. The newer colt took a hesitant step forward, then another, then another, then reared back with a screech and plummeted through the bushes to stand next to his mother. Luna looked up and was not at all surprised to see another person there, and only half-surprised to see it was Draco Malfoy. Most surprising, he had earth on his hands and knees and smeared along the front and edges of his cloak. Pieces of leaves trembled in his slightly-pinkish hair.

They stared at each other for a long time, Luna placid and Malfoy defiant. His ramrod-straight back dared her to make an inquiring comment, so she didn’t.

“Ah,” Malfoy said at last.

Luna looked away. “Here, Bàs,” she called again, and, not really expecting him to answer this time, she tossed the meat into the bushes and stood back up, shaking the blood from her fingers. “Several of them know me now,” she said. “That one’s Bàs, and that one,” she turned and pointed to the other that had retreated. “Is Saol. He’s less shy.”

“Oh,” said Malfoy.

Luna turned her large eyes on him again. “You can see them, can’t you? It would be extremely odd if you couldn’t.”

“Yeah,” said Malfoy.

Luna nodded. “When did it start for you?” Malfoy didn’t answer. “Oh, sorry. I suppose you might not want to say.  Lots of people can see them now. Students have been exchanging stories. But I suppose you haven’t really spoken with any students since you got here, have you? What are you looking for?”

“What makes you think I’m looking for anything?” Malfoy demanded. He always sounded angry.

“Why do you always sound angry?” Luna asked. Malfoy’s mouth opened and then shut. “You look like you’ve been wandering around for a while. So either you are lost, which I don’t find likely, or you’re looking for something.”

The bushes rustled. Luna automatically touched the charm at her neck in case it was nargles.

“Sophophorus,” Malfoy said. Luna cocked her head. “For Slughorn. For detention. For hexing Harper.”

“Wasn’t that last week?”

“He’s been busy. Slughorn has.”

“It’s rather odd of you to be looking in the forbidden forest. Sophophorus grows near swamps.”

“I _know_ ,” Malfoy grumbled. “I thought there might be a stray plant near a damp sight.”

“I doubt it,” said Luna. “But you could check near a mooncalf’s burrow.”

“Well that would be great,” Malfoy snapped. “If they came out more than once in a full moon, weren’t reclusive, weren’t so well-hidden, and weren’t so damn-near impossible to find.”

He was still angry, cheeks flushing to match his hair. A cold breeze swayed the tree branches and light splashed across his face, illuminating the dark hollows under his eyes. Luna bend over and unlaced her shoes.

“What are you doing?”

“I know how to find mooncalves,” said Luna calmly. She stood on one foot, then the other removing her socks and shoes. Malfoy watched her without saying anything else. She tied her shoelaces together and hung them around her neck. Then she started walking, stepping carefully on twigs and leaves and earth. After a few seconds, leaves behind her rustled as Malfoy hurried to catch up. Luna opened her satchel and pulled out paper-wrapped bread and cheese as he fell into step beside her.

“Have you eaten lunch yet? It’s nearly noon.” Malfoy didn’t answer so she held it out without looking at him. People got so nervous when she looked at them. “I got it from the kitchens this morning when the house elves gave me the pig hearts for the thestrals.” Malfoy pinched the paper and tore off a portion of the loaf. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks.”

There wasn’t enough malice in his voice for her to determine whether he was being sarcastic about her comment, or thankful for the food. Given his character it was most likely the former. Luna bit into the remaining loaf. “Trouble sleeping?” He didn’t answer. “I heard about what happened the other day. That was a rather terrible thing to do. Do they know who did it?”

“No. They don’t even know what owl it came with.” Malfoy dusted crumbs from his hands. “And no, it’s not keeping me up at night. I’m used to it.”

“You’ve been sent lots of death threats?”

“Not written ones,” said Malfoy.

They came upon a grove of large, thickset trees and walked under their branches. “Is that why you like to keep your arm covered?”

Malfoy stopped walking. She turned to look at him. Malfoy stared at her, lips pinched tight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re very quiet,” said Luna. “You didn’t used to be. You’re trying to keep from being noticed. If people saw your arm, they would be frightened, remember the war and Voldemort—” Malfoy visibly flinched. “—and then remember you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Malfoy snarled. He pushed past her. She stumbled back and fell into step behind him—a silly thing for him to do, since she was the one who knew where they were going.  

“I suppose saying that it frightens people isn’t quite right,” Luna said. “It inspires repulsion more than fear.” Malfoy didn’t give any indication that he’d heard her except that he started walking faster. Luna sighed, picking up her pace as well. They were never going to find mooncalves this way. “Unless there’s something else,” Luna mused aloud, close on his heels. “Are you afraid of it?”

Malfoy whirled. His arm collided with her face and she fell backwards onto the ground.

“Oof,” she gasped.

Malfoy stood above her, wand in hand, fists clenched, eyes a liquid fire, every angle of his face shadowed and gaunt. “Did—” his voice was taunt and dangerously low. “Did Slughorn put you up to this?”

_Slughorn? Slughorn has been asking about his arm?_

“No,” said Luna.

Malfoy’s expression hardened and he backed away. “I apologize for knocking you over. It wasn’t intentional. I’ll just be off now, since I _repulse_ you so much.”

Luna sat where she was. “I wasn’t talking about myself,” she called after his retreating figure.

Malfoy didn’t stop walking and he didn’t turn around but he called back, sounding irritated and resigned, “What do you mean?”

“You don’t repulse me.”

Malfoy stopped. Luna stood up. “And why not? Why are you helping me?”

 _Still angry,_ Luna thought.

“You were kind.”

Malfoy turned around, slowly, and stared at her for several long seconds, mouth partially open. His eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Last December. Don’t you remember?”

Malfoy’s lip curled. “Are you having a laugh?”

“When I was in the cellar,” Luna said, patiently. “You were kind.”

“How did—” Malfoy closed his eyes. He shook his head. “That wasn’t for you.”

“But it was kind all the same.”

Malfoy’s eyes opened, but he looked at the ground and not at her. His wand hung limp. “Haven’t you heard? I’m a coward. It wasn’t for you. It was for me. It wasn’t kind at all.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Luna wiggled her toes in the earth and smiled as they tingled. She turned right and took a few more steps. She felt Malfoy’s eyes on her. “Cowardice isn’t all bad,” she continued. “To be cowardly for the sake of your family – well, there are worse things, aren’t there?” Luna ducked around a thick tree, digging her big toe into the earth at its gaping roots. She poked her head out from the other side and caught a glimpse of Malfoy looking astonished and uncomfortable before the wall went back up. “You love your family very much, don’t you?”

Malfoy rubbed one eye with the palm of his hand. “Why do you say that?”

“That’s why you did it, isn’t it? Not just for yourself. You did it for them. That’s why it was kind. If you were like the others, you wouldn’t have cared.” Malfoy was looking at the ground again so she turned her back and pointed to the shadows at the roots of the tree. “There’s your mooncalf’s burrow. Try digging here.”

Malfoy coughed and came closer, his voice back to it’s regular, slightly-angry slightly-superior voice. “How do you know?”

Luna turned back to him and balanced on one foot, presenting the bare underside of the other to him. “Its dung is thick here. It tingles like—like—like the fireworks gummies at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.” She tilted her head. “It's easier to find at night, of course. It sparkles in the moonlight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This is a possible change from canon. According to Pottermore Draco only becomes interested in alchemy in later life. However, Pottermore also states that Hogwarts sometimes offered it as a seventh-year elective course if there was enough demand. I’m adding it in for my own purposes.  
> \--  
> Things should really start picking up now. Expect lots of Luna-Draco interactions from here on out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's confusing: both flashbacks take place in the summer after Draco's fifth year (Order of the Phoenix). The first flashback is right after Draco becomes a Death Eater and has been told he must kill Dumbledore. The second flashback is earlier that same summer, right after Lucius is imprisoned in Azkaban.

_Draco woke up with the heaviness gone. The terror, the relief, the mind-numbing horror, everything from last night seemed distant, as if he’d dreamt it. Draco sat up and pulled back the curtains from around his bed. Light streamed in. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and, sick with apprehension, pulled up his sleeves. The knots in his stomach dissolved and he just looked at the mark, feeling puzzled, like it was some sort of separate entity or an oddity in a museum: like it wasn’t supposed to be on his arm. He traced it with his fingers and the gears clicked into place. He let out a breath and chills swept over him._

_He chose me._

_He chose me._

_Why had he felt so numb last night? How could he have felt so numb? Excitement and nerves quickened his breath. He looked across the room at his reflection in the large gold mirror on its ornate stand._

_“Hello,” he said to it, then frowned. He stood, he washed, he dressed. He debated for a moment what to do with his sleeves, then he folded them up to his elbows. He looked at his reflection in the mirror again. “Hello,” he repeated, cold and smug. “My name is Draco Malfoy. I am a Death Eater.” The words felt foreign and delicious in his mouth. He wasn’t saying it to his reflection, but to students far away, to complete strangers and familiar faces, to muggles and mudbloods. The swell of hidden power was like being a prefect magnified by a thousand times. The beginnings of a thousand plots wiggled in his mind. They brought mild discomfort, but Draco dismissed them as nerves. “Don’t worry, Father,” he said to his reflection. “I’ll have you out soon.”_

_“Draco,” Narcissa set down the Daily Prophet and stood up as he entered the dining room. “How are you feeling?”_

_“I’m fine, Mother,” Draco smiled as she came over and took his shoulders, peering into his face. “I feel better than I have for days.”_

_Narcissa’s eyebrows bunched. Before she could say a word, a beaming Bellatrix swept into the room and chirruped, “Good morning, Draco!”_

_Draco half-smiled at her. “Good morning, Aunt.”_

_The corner of Narcissa’s mouth twitched downwards. She looked at Draco’s forearm and her hand fingered the cuff of Draco’s sleeve, loosening the folds. Draco pulled away and jerked the sleeve back into place, annoyed._

_“See, Cissy,” Bellatrix put her head on Narcissa’s shoulder, grinning at Draco. “I told you, didn’t I? I told you you should be proud. I told you he would be! Look at him, all ready to serve the Dark Lord.” She pushed away from Narcissa and waltzed up to Draco, taking his left hand and squeezing it between her own, looking at his mark with large, shining eyes. “I’m so proud of you, Sweetie.”_

_For the first time, Draco actually thought she was amusing. Insane, yes, but adorably over-excitable. His half-smile turned into an amused one. “Thank you, Aunt.”_

_“Now, eat your breakfast!” Bellatrix clapped her fingers at a house-elf and it scampered off. “Or afternoon tea, more like.” She giggled and flopped down at the head of the table, swinging up her feet and crossing her legs on top of it. “We’ll get started this afternoon.”_

_Draco bit off the corner of a scone, and felt more ravenous than he had in a month. “Get started on what?” he asked, mouth full. Narcissa moved across the room and slowly sat down across from him. She silently accepted a cup of tea from the house-elf but said nothing._

_“Training, of course,” Bellatrix swung her feet off the table and sat up straight. “You’re going to be taking on one of the most powerful wizards in the world. And Hogwarts is rubbish for learning useful things, like curses and occlumency.”_

_Draco stopped chewing and stared at her. “Occlumency?”_

_“Of course,” Bellatrix clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Come on, Sweetie, you’re cleverer than this. Dumbledore is a legilimens, as is our dear Severus and perhaps other professors at that school. Severus already knows your mission, but—”_

_“What? But it was meant to be a secret, how—”_

_“It’s not for us to question the Dark Lord’s choices,” Bellatrix interrupted. She continued, “If you’re going to succeed you need to make sure nobody can know your plans, including Severus.”_

_“Why can’t Severus know?”_

_“Yes, Bellatrix,” said Narcissa with a hint of malice. “Why can’t Severus know?”_

_Draco shot her an irritated glance. Narcissa made eye contact with him and a flicker of hurt crossed her features before they hardened again. She looked exhausted, Draco noticed for the first time. Dark circles were under her eyes and there were wrinkles around her mouth. He almost asked her if she’d slept at all last night, but Bellatrix was talking again._

_“You heard the Dark Lord,” said Bellatrix. “This is your task, and your task alone. Severus, though he’s essentially your godfather, must allow you to be the mastermind. You can’t let him take over.”_

_“Don’t worry,” said Draco, sipping his tea. “There’s no chance of that.”_

_“But you must allow him to help you if you need it,” said Narcissa. “There’s no shame in getting help.”_

_Draco set down his cup. “You don’t get it, do you, Mother?” he snapped, “He chose me. He chose me. He could have gotten anyone, he could have chosen Aunt Bellatrix, but he trusts me. He trusts me to take care of his worst adversary. I have to do it to prove myself, and to fix what you and Father have mucked up. Then we can take our place again. This is our last chance.”_

_Narcissa’s gaze went down to her tea. She turned her cup in her hands and said nothing. Draco regretted his tone immediately, but he turned his full attention to the eggs and sausages, all too aware of the presence of the mark on his arm, like a ghostly presence of the Dark Lord standing over his shoulder. He pushed back his plate and stood._

_“Well, Aunt?”_

_Bellatrix giggled again. “’To the sitting room, Sweetie,” she said, and then skipped ahead of him and shut the door behind them._

_“Start simply,” she ordered, sitting across from him, so close their knees touched. She leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees and stared at him, smirking. Her breath smelled sickly sweet, like something rotting. Draco automatically leaned back. “You shut down your emotions. Keep them all parceled up. If you don’t feel anything, I can’t feel what you feel, because you’re feeling nothing. That’s the first step. Ready?”_

_“You’re a legilimens?” Draco said, surprised and uncomfortable. He didn’t want anybody rooting aroung in his mind, but especially Aunt Bellatrix. He was still conscious off the mark on his exposed forearm like a third presence in the room._

_“Well of course, Sweetie. How did you think I was going to teach you to be an occlumens? Now!”_

_Draco flinched as Aunt Bellatrix dove in. Swirling colors, flying through the air, Lucius smirking, crowds of students, tumbling down, Potter and Granger and Weasley—he felt a jolt of panic. He didn’t want her to see petty school fights. He focused on the images, twisting and turning them. The Dark Mark loomed up, hovering in the sky, diving down into the townhouses, swallowing up everything else._

_“Good!” The room burst back onto his retinas with a sharp stab of heat through his brain. Bellatrix beamed. "Good, good, you were able to redirect me. You’re…you’re eager, you’re determined, you’re proud…that’s wonderful,” she patted his knee. “But you’re supposed to keep me out entirely!” She held her tongue between her teeth. “Try again.”_

_Draco wouldn’t have expected Bellatrix to be a patient teacher over the next weeks, but she seemed to be having more fun teaching him than he had learning. They learned hexes and curses in between occlumency sessions, practicing on rats and cockroaches that Bellatrix summoned to the sitting room. She wanted to try the house-elves and peacocks, but Narcissa put her foot down, so she sulkily stuck to the small animals. The lessons were thrilling. For years he had read with longing the descriptions of the Dark Arts, knowing that his family had used them before, wishing the doors could be open to him. Then it gaped wide and the forbidden art was succulent and commanding and overpowered the petty knowledge of shrinking potions and transforming animals into goblets or enchanting people to fly._

_“The most important thing about the supreme curses, sweetie, is you have to mean them.” Bellatrix plopped a cockroach in glass dish with sheer sides. The cockroach scuttled in circles, seeking a way out. “They are difficult spells, but even if you are the most powerful wizard in the world it won’t mean a thing unless you want it to happen.”_

_“Supreme curses?” Draco watched the cockroach scuttle around in circles, seeking a way out. “Do you mean the unforgiveable curses?”_

_Bellatrix snorted. “Only the weak call them that, but yes. Do you know why they are supreme? Because each of them renders the subject under your complete control. The Imperius Curse forces them to do your bidding, of course, but nobody can disobey you while they’re writhing and vomiting, and of course it’s impossible to resist when you’re dead.” Bellatrix giggled. “Now, which would you like to try first?”_

_Draco eyed the cockroach, unconsciously grimacing. The door opened and he looked away from the glass with a sense of relief. Narcissa entered and seated herself in a corner, holding a book._

_“What do you want, Cissy?” Bellatrix snapped._

_“It’s my sitting room, Bella. I’m reading,” said Narcissa coolly._

_Bellatrix scowled, but turned her attention back to Draco. “Cruciatus is the easiest to cast, Killing is the most difficult but it only requires an instant of concentration, Imperius is the most difficult to hold—”_

_“Unforgiveables already, Bellatrix?” Narcissa interrupted. Draco looked at her uneasily, and then looked at the ground. “How…ambitious.”_

_“Your son is more ambitious than you. Always was.” Bellatrix sniffed. “Now, which one, Sweetie?”_

_“You say I have to want it?” Draco made a choice. He pointed his wand. “Imperio.”_

_It took a few tries—Draco could feel Narcissa’s presence in the room, and it was distracting. He couldn’t feel comfortable with her there like he did with his aunt. But the first time the cockroach leapt at his command, Draco forgot all about his mother. In awe and delight, he watched as it leapt and ran and danced and hit itself against the walls as hard as Draco wanted._

_“Very good, Sweetie. Go on, next one!”_

_Draco released the cockroach, watched it return to its endless march around the bottom of the glass, and then muttered with unease, “Crucio.”_

_This one was harder. They tried all that afternoon, and Bellatrix finally lost patience with him, taking out her own wand and demonstrating again and again. Sparks went from his wand once or twice, causing the cockroach to leap back, but he couldn’t get rid of the nausea and reluctance that threatened to break his concentration._

_“Enough of that,” said Bellatrix at last, pouting, her voice tired and disappointed. The sun was setting outside. “Go on.”_

_Draco looked at the cockroach. The disgusting insect sat trembling. It had long since stopped trying to escape and merely sat, its many legs shaking, with the occasional full-body shudder. Strange. Draco didn’t think he would ever feel pity for an insect. He had seen a spider tortured fourth year, of course, but it was so different on the other side of the wand—so different—_

_His hand felt heavy as he lifted it again. He felt Narcissa’s presence again, overbearing and reluctant. Draco hesitated. An invisible line was etched in his soul. One that, once over, he could never cross back again. Draco glanced at the mark and his expression hardened. He pushed the thought aside._

_“Avada kedavra.”_

_Green flame, and a mercifully non-twitching cockroach. Dead silence._

_Narcissa let out a breath._

_“First try!” Bellatrix cried, clapping her hands. “Incredible, Draco, very well done, sweetie!”_

_Draco lowered his wand. The mark stirred._

*

The underbrush grew thick around the base of the tree. Draco pushed aside nettles, ripped up unnamable weeds, pushed aside clumps of grasses. He paused once to look back at Luna. She had seated herself on a toppled log, legs stretched out in front of her with her ankles crossed. She pulled out a thick scroll and tossed one end of it on the ground where it rolled out a good three feet, covered in thick, neat black letting and crossed in multi-colored notes scribbled in the margins. She plucked a quill from a knot of hair over her right ear, looked up, and smiled.

Draco looked away. His search took him around the tree in ever-widening circles. Sweat gathered damp patches on his back even as his fingers numbed from prodding cold plants. He snuck another glance at Luna. A peacock feather dangled from that same knot of hair, brushing her cheekbone down to her shoulder. Her feet poked out of trousers rolled halfway up her calves, toes curled around the texture in the earth and moss. Ravenclaw and Gryffindor Quidditch buttons flashed on the chest of her soft blue pig’s-heart-blood-smeared coveralls. Today her earrings were strawberries. Whether they were real strawberries or eerily lifelike replicas he couldn’t be sure. She reminded him of the monstrosity of a patchwork quilt, covered in baubbles and clashes of colors and textured patterns, that a half-blood’s grandmother had tried once tried foist onto Narcissa at a Ministry Christmas party. There was only one clear difference: the quilt had looked truly horrendous. He couldn’t say the same about Luna.

Luna frowned at the scroll, brushing the end of her quill across her chin. Draco bent down again, and let out a hiss of triumph. A small, squat, sickly-looking sophopholus plant bobbed in the breeze. But it was good enough. Draco uprooted it and added it to his pouch and went back to Luna. She muttered under her breath, scribbling madly. Draco leaned close, turning his head to read the writing.

**_HELIOPATHS, be warned, are not as easily tamed as some would have you think. As tempting as it is to attempt such a feat, you must ensure that you are ready for whatever trickery your HELIOPATH may unfold. Multiple eyewitnesses claim that their weakness is a cool glass of lemonade, and an excellent way to gain their friendship – though most likely not their servitude._ **

**_It cannot be denied that HELIOPATHS are the scourge of your gardening show adversaries. Should you be lucky enough to gain the favor of one, your roses, blest with the undying sunlight could very well have excellent luck in securing first prize and enduring fame._ **

**_(Let it be noted that the Quibbler and its associates are not endorsing one plan of action over another.)_ **

“What’s a heliopath?”

Luna started and looked up. Draco hastily straightened, putting distance between them again.

“It’s a fire spirit,” Luna shoved the quill behind her ear, spattering a small amount of ink on her lobe. She rolled up the long length of scroll. “All finished?”

Draco nodded and didn’t even bother questioning why she should walk back to Hogwarts with him. He waited while she tied up the thick scroll and placed it in her bag next to, Draco noticed, three or four others. They started back in silence. Draco could almost feel the sophopholus and stolen valerian and lethe water burning against his hip, and Luna’s presence burned him on the other side. He rubbed an ear, studied the foliage as they passed, and pondered how much Loony Luna could figure out or if she would even try to figure it out, and if she did, what would she do with the knowledge?

“Seems like a large project for Care of Magical Creatures so early in the year,” Draco blurted, desperate for a distraction. “Your paper, I mean.”

“Oh, it’s not for a class,” said Luna. “Heliopaths aren’t widely studied in most circles.”

“What’s it for, then?”

“The Quibbler.” Draco risked a glance. Luna looked straight ahead with that serene smile. “I want to be a magizoologist, you see, and I need experience writing up my findings in reports and so forth.”

She didn’t give any sign of intending to look back at him, so Draco continued to watch her. “Seems pretty intense. Your notes practically covered the entire Ravenclaw table the other day.”

“What?”

“Ginny Weasely was helping you edit?”

A curious look came into Luna’s face. “Have you been watching me?”

“No,” Draco said immediately.

Luna fiddled with the charm at her neck. “That wasn’t the heliopaths article. It was – the latest article written by Daddy. He appreciates my opinions. He thinks I should have experience editing, too.”

Draco thought of the scrolls her in her bag. “He sends you an awful lot.”

“I don’t mind. I expect I’ll have to work much harder to become a successful magizoologist. The extra work helps me study for my N.E.W.T.s anyway.”

Draco highly doubted that Luna’s N.E.W.T.s called for extensive knowledge of imaginary creatures such as heliopaths and nargles.

Luna’s gaze went from staring straight ahead to staring at the ground. Her fingers turned the charm over and over where it rested against her collarbone. “Daddy works very hard on the Quibbler, you see. He’s made it very successful. I have a lot to learn from him.” A slight tinge of pink came into Luna’s face. She straightened and suddenly looked him in the eyes. Draco looked away. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What are you going to be?”

Even though all of his common sense told him this was an innocent question, his emotions screamed that she was mocking him. Slughorn, McGonagall, now Lovegood. “I don’t know,” he snapped.

“Well, what are your N.E.W.T.s?” Luna sounded patronizingly patient.

Draco laughed. “Why, are you going to council me on what I should do with my life when no one wants to look me in the face?”

“No. I’m just curious.”

He stopped laughing and frowned instead, beginning to wish again that she would go away and leave him alone. He sighed. “Potions, DADA, transfiguration, charms, herbology. I’m in alchemy too.”

“You always were good at potions,” Luna commented. “You would make a good potioneer.”

“Thanks.” Draco wondered if she had heard about the disaster that was his sixth year—of course, that was in everything, not just potions, so perhaps it really didn’t count.

“I think those are the classes recommended for Aurors, aren’t they?”

“I don’t want to be an Auror.” Really, him, Draco Malfoy, an Auror? It sounded like the beginning of a terrible joke.

“Me neither,” said Luna. “I know it is one of the most sought-after occupations, but I don’t really see how it could be enjoyable. You would be facing Dark Magic every day, hunting down people to capture them, perhaps send them to Azkaban – it sounds very depressing to me.”

Draco hadn’t even considered what the job actually consisted of. Really all he had thought about was the absurd notion of him trying to work with the very people who had been attempting to capture and/or kill his family for the past few years and were now watching their every move. Of course, the same could be said about any occupation that involved the ministry, which was, unfortunately, most of them.

“I’m going to intern with the Department of Magizoologists this summer,” Luna continued. “I’ll be starting in the office, of course, but I hope to quickly move into the field. I met Rolf Scamander briefly once a few years ago, in a meeting about the Quibbler with Daddy. He told me he was impressed with my abilities and that he might be able to get me a field operation when I graduated. I wonder if he remembers? What are you going to do?”

Draco was getting very tired of saying ‘I don’t know,’ so he answered instead, “I’m going home.” The instant the sentence left his mouth it sounded even worse than the non-committal answer. He may as well have said, ‘Nothing. I have no ambitions whatsoever. I’m going to slink back into the dark cave of post-wizarding-war shame and sulk.’

“That’s nice,” said Luna, and again Draco’s emotions flip-flopped between feeling grateful that she sounded genuine and being angry because surely she was making fun. “I wish I could spend more time at home with Daddy. It’s hard on him, me being gone all the time. Always has been. But he would want me to pursue this, and I want to make him proud.” Through this whole speech Luna gradually spoke more and more quietly, and at the end she was all but whispering. Draco risked another look at her and she had stopped smiling. Draco felt horribly uncomfortable. He didn’t think he was really supposed to hear this.

“How is he? Your, uh, father.” He regretted this question instantly, but the regret vanished as a brilliant smile lit Luna’s face.

“He’s all right. Thank you for asking.” After a moment, she added, “And your mother and father? How are they?”

The thing he should have said was ‘Fine.’ That was the easy, polite, no-further-questions-asked answer. But it was also such an egregious lie that he said, “They’ve seen better.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“They didn’t want me to come back to Hogwarts,” Draco muttered by way of explanation.

“I see. Why did you?”

“Couldn’t stay.”

“Family problems?”

“No!” Draco snapped, then relented, “Well, yes, but that isn’t it. It wasn’t their fault, it was the Manor—why am I telling you this?” This last bit was a thought he didn’t intend to say out loud. He stopped walking and Luna turned back to face him. She looked inquisitive, but smiled brightly and to his relief didn’t ask any more questions.

“I think I have one of those faces,” she said helpfully. “People just tell me things. It doesn’t happen so much now that I’ve become a little bit famous for being friends with Harry Potter. But when people teased me all the time, they would be saying horrible things about my hair and my shoes one minute and then telling me their deepest, darkest secret the next. I suppose it’s because I listen, and I don’t tell. And even if I did people would just think it was a mad theory of mine.”

Draco studied her for a moment, and then barked a laugh and continued walking.

“What?” Luna inquired.

“It’s just, if I’d known that, before, I could’ve saved a lot of work digging up dirt on people I didn’t like. All I’d have had to do is befriend you. I probably would’ve even asked you out.”

“Well, don’t be too upset,” said Luna falling into step beside him again. “I wouldn’t have gone out with you, or been friends with you.”

Draco tried to not feel insulted. “Why not?”

“I didn’t like you,” said Luna simply. “You can be very cruel, you know.” She didn’t look angry, or bitter. Just factual. Draco couldn’t think of anything to say, so he didn’t say anything and did his best to smother the sharp pang in his side.

 _Watch it,_ he cautioned himself. _There’s nothing stopping her from repeating everything you say to Slughorn. Or McGonagall. Or the Ministry._ Really, what was the likelihood that she’d actually heard everybody’s deepest, darkest secrets and never blabbed?

They reached the edge of the wood, emerging near Hagrid’s hut. Hogwarts stood stark against the sky. All chilliness had disappeared in the bright sun. They rounded the garden and found Hagrid stumping around in it, folding up the plastic sheets and gently uprooting frostbitten weeds with a large hoe that looked in Hagrid’s hand like little more than a toothpick.

“Good morning, Hagrid,” said Luna pleasantly, even though it was past noon. “How’s your garden going? Anything damaged by the frost?”

Hagrid turned around, face changing from a smile to overshadowed caution and back to a smile. Draco watched a fly buzzing around a compost pile and pretended to not listen or watch or care about their interactions.

“G’mornin’, Luna. Nothin’ damaged, but somethin’ came in and trampled some o’ my valerian last night.”

“What a shame,” said Luna.

“What’re you and Malfoy doin’?”

Draco had a jolt of panic—if she mentioned the sophophorus—

“We were feeding the thestrals,” said Luna. “You won’t tell that we were in the forest, will you? I am an upcoming magizoologist, you know.”

Hagrid chuckled. “No, ‘course not. Glad you’re makin’ friends with them creatures. Vastly misunderstood, but as sensitive as anything, and they get lonely.”

“Yes, they are very sweet,” said Luna. Draco shuffled his weight back and forth. “We’d better get up to the castle now,” Luna continued. “Goodbye, Hagrid. I hope whatever it was stays out of your valerian.”

They left the garden and continued upward. Draco allowed himself to breathe again once they’d gotten out of earshot. Luna started humming again. They passed a waist-high boulder, in the shade of which a clump of asphodel grew.  Draco pulled up a handful as they passed.

“What’s that for?” Luna asked, voice too inquisitive and non-casual. Draco instantly regretted grabbing them in front of her. He thought frantically for an answer as Luna remarked, “Sophophorus, asphodel, valerian…those are all used in the Draught of Living Death, aren’t they?” Draco began to panic. “Of course, asphodel is also used in Wiggenweld…which one is it for?”

“Neither,” Draco blurted. “It’s for you.” Keeping one crushed lily hidden in one hand, Draco held out the others. They both stopped walking. Luna took the flowers, looking surprised and puzzled. “What’s the matter?” Draco scowled. “Don’t you like flowers?”

“Certainly I do,” said Luna, still looking puzzled. “Thank you.” She tucked their stems into her knot of hair, where they hung awkwardly with the other knickknacks. They walked the rest of the way to Hogwarts in silence and parted with simple goodbyes.

*

Draco’s free time was consumed with his own scraps of paper now. He still saw Luna almost every meal he ate in the great hall, leaning over those papers, often with Ginny at her side. He stopped spending much time there now, though. As he got more and more tired, his appetite all but disappeared. Plus, it was these times that Harper loved to talk the loudest.

“We’ve an amazing team this year,” he said, raising his voice over the Saturday-morning clamor in the middle of October. “And Stuart is a truly amazing Seeker – best one we’ve had in fifty years, I bet. Definitely no losing to Gryffindor _this_ year; after all, no Potter this year, and no incompetent players bullying their way onto the team. All we have is unadulterated commitment, nerve, and athleticism.”

Draco hunched over his scroll of alchemy and potion notes, struggling to concentrate on the equations and calculate the severity of possible side-effects and _not_ stand up and inform everybody that yes, indeed, he was rich and proud but to insist that he had no Quidditch talent was pure nonsense. Instead he said nothing and let the passive-aggressive laughter bombard him.

The fifth-year Slytherin Vanessa Travers sat near to Harper. Unlike the others though, she only smiled mildly at his boasting. Lately she seemed to take great pleasure in staring at Draco from across rooms with dark, hatred-filled eyes, straight, shimmering dark hair that changed between black and brown depending on the light, surrounded by other Slytherin girls, most of them younger except for one sixth-year. Draco suspected their group of being the ones who had ambushed him. He thought perhaps that the Death Eater Travers was a distant cousin who was, of course, in Azkaban – and slightly insane by the time they’d put him there, though you could hardly blame Draco for that.

 _Infusion of wormwood,_ Draco thought, stubbornly ignoring the room as best he could, _might clash with Lethe Water – their properties are entirely different – but what’s the worst that could happen? Stomach ache? A double-portion of lavender might sooth it over…_

Fresh laughter. Without warning, an ache pushed its way into Draco’s eyes and stomach. He leaned a cold palm against a hot forehead. He got chills sometimes now. He wouldn’t be surprised if he woke up in the hospital wing someday soon.

_Severus would know._

_Severus would help me._

_Severus would be ashamed of me for looking so dejected in public._

Draco straightened, letting his hand fall. The post arrived. And a card that by now looked familiar. Draco only glanced at the words ( _I’m waiting for you_ ) before pushing it onto the floor under the table with his wand and setting it on fire. He had received five of these death threats now, always from the same person (he supposed?), though none had been as dramatic as the first – probably because he burnt them before they had a chance to do anything dramatic. He’d given up going to the professors about it. They either lacked the will or the ability to do anything about it.

 _Hogsmeade,_ Draco decided. _I can’t stand it. I need rest. I’m going to Hogsmeade._ He jerked to his feet and left the hall, retrieving his cloak and one of his money pouches where it sat underneath the desk against the wall, hidden with a concealing charm. Also concealed under the desk was a second-hand cauldron, the contents of which were carefully kept warm. Draco slipped outside and pulled the hood low over his face, giving any other students trickling down the path to Hogsmeade a wide berth.

It felt absurd, going to Hogsmeade to purchase ingredients he should be able to procure from Slughorn, or even from the student cabinets, without questions. But at least here he could have some measure of anonymity, however small it may be. Out of long habit, he slowed in front of the Hogs Head, but he regained his senses at the sound of laughter within and hurried on to Dogweed and Deathcap’s, a small herbology shop nestled in a corner and flanked by dark alleys. He stepped inside and plunged into a soupy swamp of warm, moist air. Many of the exotic plants were planted in shelves made of wood and soil, their leaves and vines curling over the edges and trailing to the floor.

“Can I help you?” A young woman with an apron addressed him, looking shockingly out of place with wild bright pink hair and dark eye shadow. Her eyes narrowed and Draco risked pulling back his hood a bit so as to look a bit less suspicious. He was already beginning to sweat.

“I need lavender,” said Draco. “And flobberworm mucus, if you have it.”

The woman narrowed her eyes and pulled at a bit of gum in her mouth. She jerked her head. “Lavender’s over there.”

“Thanks.” Draco inspected the shelves and, not knowing what else to do, pulled off a few sprigs of the plant. When he turned around, the woman wasn’t there anymore. He sighed in irritation and went to the front counter to wait. Lining the shelves here were the non-plant items. Draco found a jar of flobberworm mucus. He placed it and the sprigs on the counter and, sweltering now, pulled his hood completely off his head and ran his fingers through his hair.

The woman came back. “That all for you?” Without waiting for an answer, she droned, “Six sickles, four knuts.”

Draco handed her the money and left the shop. Stepping into the street cooled the sweat on his neck immediately. A tantalizing smell wafted past him and his stomach growled, much to his surprise. He hadn’t felt hungry in a while. Perhaps it was the long walk that did it. He shook his change in his palm and pondered briefly whether it was worth the risk being seen by students in order to buy some food. It took him only a moment to decide against it, but that moment was long enough for something small and firm to press between his shoulder blades and a quiet voice to whisper, “Don’t move, Malfoy, and don’t speak.”

Draco froze. He clenched the money in his fist. His wand lay warm against the skin of his forearm, where he kept it tucked up his sleeve. All he had to do was shake his arm, it would slide into his hand—

“Move forward,” said the voice, pressing what must have been their wand harder against his back. “Into the alley there.” Draco obeyed. The instant they were off the street strong hands grabbed his shoulders, whirled him around and shoved him up against the uneven brick walls. Draco caught his breath in surprise as the hood of his assailant fell backwards to reveal the face of a very pretty, thirty-or-so complete stranger.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Shhhht!” hissed the woman and the tip of her wand pressed against his throat. “You say nothing, Malfoy. You say _nothing_. You deserve to say _nothing_.” Draco pressed his arm against the side of his body and rubbed it back and forth very slightly, trying to shake his wand loose. “Don’t look so surprised,” the woman continued. “I warned you. And if it wasn’t me it’d be another. _You are a dead man walking._ ”

Draco swallowed, frantically trying to calculate the likelihood that someone else was in the area, someone that would be willing to help him, someone that could get to him fast enough so he wasn’t killed after crying for help— “What do you want, money?”

“ _Shhht!_ ” The wand jabbed him and Draco coughed. “How dare you. How _dare_ you!” She bared her teeth and all but growled. Draco wiggled his arm a little more frantically. “You think I’m that easy? You think you can buy me off?” The brightness of her eyes was maniacal, and with a sickening jolt for a brief moment Draco thought he was looking at Bellatrix. She hissed. “ _Impedimenta._ ” Chills raced through his blood, locking his limbs into place. A stray piece of the jinx hit his wand and it slipped, knocking against his wrist. But he couldn’t move his fingers to grab it. He had to do something. _Anything._ The jinx, contrary to petrificus totalus, did not prevent speech.

Draco took a deep breath and forced his voice out calmly, almost in a whisper. “What did I do wrong?”

Tears swam with the hatred in her eyes. “Emmeline Vance.”

Draco bit the inside of his lip. “I don’t know who that is.”

Wrong thing to say. Her eyes flashed. Draco flinched. “No?” She leaned in, breathing in his face. His pulse quickened. He recognized murder in another person’s eyes when he saw it. He recognized it from experience.

“What happened to her?” Draco said, desperately trying to move his fingers. The wand slipped a little more.

“She’s dead,” said the woman. “As are you, the first in a long line of long-overdue executions.”

Draco felt his heart pounding cold blood. “What do you want?”

“I want you,” said the woman. “You son of a bitch.” Then she stared into his eyes and Draco let out a pained gasp, mentally reeling backwards as she dove into his mind.

_Roaring darkness, Luna smiling, high, cold laughter, terrifying sobbing ‘Not Draco, not Draco—‘_

_Get out of my head!_

The wand slipped and knocked against his curled fingers. Without thinking, quickly throwing up walls and drowning his emotions, Draco tried something he never had before. “ _Legilimens!_ ”

Light exploded behind his eyes and the sound of screaming filled his head. Draco gasped. His knees buckled and he caught himself, released from the jinx. He looked up. The woman had staggered back, hands on either side of her head, gasping, tears evident. She shrieked and light shot from her wand. Draco dodged and jumped to the side, wand clamped in his hand, his head still ringing with disembodied wails.

The woman whirled, blocking his way out of the alley, shooting spell after spell with astonishing rapidity. Draco blocked, stumbling backwards. He glanced behind him to look for another way out.

“Not so fast, sweetheart.” He saw a head of pink hair a moment before it was drowned out in another flash of light.

Draco flailed. His hasty shield collided with the spell and it exploded like a firework. He went down again. The two woman advanced on him as he scrambled up from the ground, grasping at the wall behind his back, blocking and fighting the instinct to use curses. Until he realized that he might be dead if he didn’t.

“ _Geminio!_ ” An old, rotting barrel exploded into duplicates. Draco ducked under the flying wood, heading to the street. A brick wall materialized out of nowhere. “ _Expuls_ —”

“No you _don’t!_ ” said one woman.

“ _Reducto!_ ” cried the other. Draco threw himself to the side, but not quite fast enough. His half-formed shield splintered. Something ripped Draco’s cloak from his shoulders and he spun through the air and landed in a pile of smoke and raining ash. The wind was knocked out of him.

_Expelliarmus!_

The wand flew from his first attacker’s hand and skittered across the ground to him. The brick wall melted away. Draco grabbed the wand, managed to suck in some air, and jumped to his feet. The pink-haired herbologist froze and both of the women looked at him with wide eyes. The first was staring at her wand, clamped in Draco’s left hand. No—Draco felt the chill of the fall air against his bare skin. His clothes were torn and smoking. He felt skin in several places throbbing from the outburst of heat, except for a liquid cool place on his left arm. The cool, painless sensation pressed against his mind and whispered soundlessly in his ears. The woman wasn’t looking at her wand. She was looking at his mark.

Draco trembled, suddenly furious. “You listen to me,” his voice came out hoarse and shaking in anger. The pink woman made a sudden movement. Draco pointed his wand and she froze. “Don’t even think about it.” Keeping his own wand up, he lowered his left arm, turning the underside outwards and letting them see. It prodded him, encouraging him and dragging him down. “You know what this means?” he whispered. “You think you can stop it? It means death, and pain, and despair, and _power_ and you think you can stand up to it?”

“It’s black,” the woman pointed, her gaze fixed and wild. “He died. He died six months ago. Why is it still active?”

Draco stopped shaking externally, but the trembling intensified in his gut. “You tell me,” he challenged, glaring. The women no longer looked angry. They both looked petrified. “Listen,” Draco repeated. “You do not ‘have’ me. Not me, not my family, not then, not now, not _ever._ Got it? Get out.” He stepped to the side. The women edged their way past him, but the first hesitated, looking at her wand again.

“I’ll leave it,” Draco said. “You can have it back, after I’ve gone. Get out.”

They disappeared into the street. Draco sagged against the wall the moment they were gone, gasping. He sank to the ground and leaned his head against the wall until he’d caught his breath. He looked down at himself. His clothes were torn, and the lower halves of his sleeves and trousers were burned away, the flesh underneath red and angry. His cloak lay in a pile next to the wall. Draco dragged it to him and shrugged it over his shoulders as he lurched to his feet. He had to leave, quickly. If the women told anyone – they would be down on him in a minute—he had dared to take another wizard’s wand—

“Well, well, well, Malfoy,”

Draco whirled. Harper and his gang laughed at his startled face.

“Been brawling, have we, Malfoy? That’s against the rules, you know.”

Drago’s shoulders sagged. “Bugger off, Harper,” he said tiredly. Harper whistled.

“A bit cocky for a lily-livered cockroach, aren’t you?”

Something inside Draco snapped. He lifted his arms, letting the cloak sleeves slide back. “ _AVADA KED—”_

The Slytherins bolted, disappearing around the bend. Draco dropped his arms and cursed himself, feeling faint. The ghostly presence that whispered to him from his mark was laughing.

 _I wasn’t going to use it,_ Draco told himself. _I only said it to scare them off._

_Is that so?_

Draco started at the uninvited thought. He threw the woman’s wand to the ground and ran from the alley. He didn’t stop until he reached Hogwarts, gasping, throat raw, burns screaming, sides in knots, the mark laughing and twisting on his arm.

 _It isn’t really moving,_ Draco told himself. _It hasn’t moved since He died._

But it was still black. Only active marks were black. The others faded to a rusty blood-red. He pushed his way past a knot of students that fled before him. He went to his room, locked the door, and fell to his knees. His satchel was still tied around his body. He dug into it, pulling out the lavender and mucus and dragging out the small pewter cauldron. He squeezed the juice of the lavender out, and the potent clear liquid turned a misty violet. Draco pulled out the lowest drawer of his desk where a captured mouse was scurrying in circles. Draco pulled it out. He tore off a piece of his tattered sleeves and dipped it in the potion, then dangled it in front of the mouse’s face. The thirsty rodent sucked the liquid away. Draco released it. The mouse ran for three feet, then it wobbled, then it ran in circles, then it fell over onto its side and lay still. Draco leaned down, watching it. The mouse’s sides heaved in rhythm. Draco’s hands started shaking again.

He divided the potion into his collection of empty vials and hid them behind a loose brick in the wall, which he sealed in with a charm. There was still a few mouthfuls left in the cauldron. Draco didn’t even bother getting onto the bed. He picked up the hot cauldron with his already-scalded hands and tipped the potion into his mouth. It burned and tasted like lavender and sour milk. The room reeled. He dropped the cauldron and it clattered to the floor, rolling away. Draco started to go after it but the floor tipped and he fell forward onto his face.

Bellatrix’s laugh shrieked in his ears. Draco’s stomach lurched. He was going to throw up.

 _“It’s an honor!”_ she cried. _“Don’t you understand? He’s summoned you! Aren’t you excited? We’re going to see Him! Now!”_

_I’m about to die._

Bellatrix snarled. _“The Dark Lord won’t stand for it, I tell you! I won’t stand for it! If he gives the order I’ll kill you myself!”_

_I’m about to die._

Soft, breathy voice. _“I am not going to kill you, Draco.”_

 _“Don’t dampen his enthusiasm, Narcissa,”_ said Father. _“The Dark Lord will be pleased to know that every Malfoy is eager to serve.”_

Fingernails, colder than ice and sharper than nails. They were driving into his bones.

_“I have a task appointed to you.”_

His soul screamed. It writhed, and twisted, and shrank and vanished. Death clamped its hand over his mouth and smothered him.

 _“Give him a taste of Our displeasure, Draco._ ”

 _I can’t. I can’t._ His wand was shaking.

“ _Perhaps you need a demonstration?_ ”

_No_

_“Crucio._ ”

Ollivander lurched around their cellar, face blank, at Draco’s command as moved his wand, and Bellatrix laughed so hard tears rolled down her face.

He didn’t belong to himself.

_“What would my Lord have me do?”_

Narcissa wept.

_Kill me._

Freezing touch at his elbow, wand tip at his wrist.

_“Swear, Draco.”_

_Please just kill me._

Tears on his face, firewhisky burning in his throat.

_“Swear.”_

_Just kill me now._

The images faded into nothing. The blackness overcame him, still stinking of death. Draco floated up away from his body. Silence pressed in from all around him, but still he heard his own voice echoing in the deep space inside his mind, clawing at the walls trying to escape, moaning and weeping and begging.

“Just kill me. Kill me. Just please kill me now.”

He blacked out.

*

_Draco felt fierce anger, worry about his father’s arrest, sickening humiliation, extreme hatred of Potter – but it was the letter from Narcissa that made him feel afraid._

_Draco, I am meeting you at the station. Be very careful._

_Doubly sick with apprehension and the after-affects of Potter’s and the others’ hexes, , the imprints of the luggage racks where Potter and his ridiculous friends had shoved him still pressed into his sides, Draco emerged from the train, feeling cold. Narcissa spotted him at once and she had one arm around him, guiding him quickly away, her heels clicking against the floor._

_“Mother, what’s happening?” Draco was on the verge of complaining about Potter, insisting that she write and insist he be disciplined—it would be very satisfying because it was his fault Lucius had been caught in the Department of Mysteries in the first place—_

_“Shh,” Narcissa hissed. “Look straight ahead. Head up. Shoulders back. Come now.”_

_Draco obeyed, vision clouding a little from nausea, dried sweat cold on his face. They floo’ed to the Manor five minutes later and Narcissa stood up, dusting Draco off, then she took his shoulders._

_“Draco, are you all right?” her voice was sharp and jagged with worry. “You’re very cold.”_

_“I’m all right, Mother,” said Draco. “When’s father—”_

_“Don’t lie to me!” Narcissa cried. Draco’s eyes opened wide and his stomach flipped. “What happened? Who hexed you?” Her fingers hurt his shoulders._

_“Just—it—was only Potter,” Draco stuttered, and Potter seemed suddenly much less important. “Honest, we were fighting, that’s all.”_

_Narcissa let out her breath and then she wrapped her arms around Draco and held him a moment. But only for a moment. Then she pushed him back. “There’s not much time, I’m expecting—”_

_“Cissy!” Aunt Bellatrix appeared in the doorway, her eyes wild from behind the strings of curls hanging over her face. Her gaze snapped to Draco and she grinned. “Hello, Sweetie.”_

_“Hello Aunt,” said Draco, eyeing her with discomfort. “Mother, what’s going on?”_

_Narcissa’s jaw clenched as she looked at her sister. “Go upstairs, darling,” she said, giving Draco a little push. “Stay in your room, don’t come down.”_

_Draco took a few steps away, and then he stopped and looked between the two women. “Is Father going to be all right? Is he really going to stay in Azkaban? The Dark Lord will break him out, won’t he?”_

_“Draco—” Narcissa said warningly._

_“You haven’t told him, Cissy? Really? You’ve told him nothing?” Bellatrix interrupted._

_Draco set his jaw and braced himself. “Told me what?”_

_“Your darling Father is staying in Azkaban. Being in Azkaban is the best thing for him,” Bellatrix pointed her wand at Draco. “He failed to capture Potter, failed to retrieve the prophecy – you’re lucky he isn’t dead!”_

_Draco went cold._

_“You’re lucky you all aren’t dead!”_

_“You failed as well, Bella!” Narcissa cried, hands clenched into fists. A few sparks came from her wand. Draco took one step back. “You dueled Potter yourself and you didn’t—”_

_“The Dark Lord had mercy on me!” Bellatrix shrieked. “He took me from the Ministry! I above all others am loyal, I above all others give myself entirely to him! You!” She waved her wand between the two of them. "Your idiot of a husband destroyed the diary, you all abandoned him after the first war, came crawling back full of remorse to these blood traitors, and you let Potter slip through your fingers! The Dark Lord won’t stand for it, I tell you! I won’t stand for it! If he gives the order I’ll kill you myself!”_

_Light exploded from Narcissa’s wand. It did not strike Bellatrix, but spread, forming a wall between the three of them, Draco and Narcissa on one side, Bellatrix on the other. Bellatrix looked startled, and then she grinned and she cackled._

_“Not to worry, sister,” she soothed. “I’ll not do anything beyond what the Dark Lord commands.” She traced her fingers down her left forearm. “And it’s not like I want to kill you, sweetie,” she glanced at Draco. His heart was switching between skipping beats and throbbing in his throat. “You are my family, my nephew, after all. But you need to understand what horrible danger your father has put you in.” She glowered at Narcissa, and the light faded. Narcissa’s wand hand shook._

_“Go upstairs, Draco,” she whispered calmly._

_Draco fled. He scattered a small flock of house-elves on his way._

*

“Draco. _Draco_.”

The blackness swirled, mingled with dark purple. Voices and pain echoed. Draco pushed away, tried to leave again.

“Draco wake _up_.”

A sharp sting. The darkness exploded into shards of light and Draco opened his eyes, blinking groggily. The sun and moon hovered above him, spots of light dancing between them. Draco blinked hard and let out a little groan. His vision cleared. The sun and moon melted into dark and light, then to blonde and red. The moon blocked the sun. Luna leaned over him, concern in her eyes. Behind her head stood Ginny Weasley with an extremely peeved expression on her face.

“Lovegood,” said Draco slowly. His face throbbed. His voice rasped like it hadn’t been used in weeks. His throat was very dry. “Did you slap me?”

Luna leaned back. “Draco, that was extraordinarily stupid of you.”

“Mmf,” Draco moved to get up. The instant he moved, his entire body burst into flames – at least that was what it felt like. He groaned again, falling back to the floor.

“What happened?” This was Ginny. “You look like you’ve been baking in an oven.”

Draco turned his head, the skin of his neck protesting, and looked at the exposed skin of his right arm, surrounded by charred cloth. His memory began returning. He remembered his skin being red and angry; now it was redder, angrier, and covered in large, puffy blisters. He stared at the ceiling and remembered where he was. His mind began to clip along at a furious pace. He felt remarkably alert.

“How did you get in my room?” he demanded. His voice still sounded like that of a croaky old man.

“Never mind that,” said Luna. “How could you be so _stupid_?” She held up the cauldron. “Do you have any idea how long it took for us to come up with the proper antidote? How long it took us to figure out what exactly went in here? Why on earth did you go and drink the Living Death draught?”

“I didn’t,” said Draco, annoyed at her clear inability to understand. “I modified it.”

“We figured out that much!” Luna shook her head. “That’s why it was so stupid! You were experimenting on yourself!”

 “I tested it on a mouse,” he snapped. His pain and thirst were getting worse. “Why the hell did you wake me up for? What time is it?”

“It’s three in the morning,” said Luna. Draco groaned. Luna still looked extraordinarily put out. “Draco, when did you drink it?”

Draco grimaced, feeling dizzy. “Not sure what time it was. I didn’t have lunch.”

“On Saturday?” Ginny spoke up, arms crossed, a look of haughty superiority on her face. Draco wanted to smack it off.

“Yes, so?”

“Draco,” said Luna. “It’s three in the morning – _Monday_ morning. You’ve been asleep for over thirty-six hours.”

Silence blanketed the room. The two girls looked at him intently, as if to gauge his reaction. Draco didn’t react at first; he felt rather startled. Then a small smile snaked onto his face, even though it painfully pulled on the burnt skin of his mouth.

“Brilliant,” he said. Luna’s mouth dropped open and Ginny’s eyebrows went up.

“Brilliant?” Ginny exclaimed. Luna seemed dumbstruck. “When it did that to you?” She waved her wand in his general direction.

“What? Oh. These didn’t come from the potion.” Draco steeled himself and sat up. Sparks exploded in his head. He plucked the empty vial from Luna’s hand, gingerly trying to not irritate the blisters on his palms. “ _Aquamenti_.” He rinsed out the remnants of whatever antidote they had given, emptied the water into the cauldron, then summoned more and drank it.

Luna found her voice again. “Where did it come from, then?”

“Reducto,” said Draco, casually. He enjoyed the stunned looks on both of their faces.

“You were hit with the redactor curse?” Luna gasped. “And you’re alive?”

“I’m offended by your lack of confidence in my dueling abilities,” Draco said with a hurt tone in his voice. “It didn’t hit me directly, obviously. I mostly blocked it with a shield.”

“When were you dueling?” Ginny demanded.

Luna lifted a hand as if to shush her, “ _Why_ were you dueling?”

“It wasn’t by choice, if that’s what you’re wondering. Everybody can’t wait to get their hands on me.” He shrugged. “I went down to Hogsmeade. Some people weren’t too happy to see me. End of story.”

“Who?” Luna pressed.

“End of story,” Draco emphasized, and then winced. He addressed Luna. “Now, how the hell did you get in the Slytherin dormitories? And why did you even try? And why did you give me an antidote?”

“You’re _welcome_ ,” snapped Ginny. Draco glared at her.

Luna sighed. She waved her wand and a clear blue glow clouded around its tip. She pressed it to his shoulder. Draco jerked back. “What are you doing?”

“She’s trying to heal you, dunderhead,” said Ginny.

“I’ve been training with Madame Pomphrey as an extra class,” Luna explained. “Magizoologists need to be able to heal themselves, if they run into dangerous exotic plants or animals, especially if their dangers haven’t been discovered yet.”

Draco stopped protesting as a cooling sensation swept down his shoulder. He sighed in relief before he could stop himself.

“As for your other questions, I couldn’t have gotten in without Ginny’s help,” said Luna.

At these words, Ginny hunched her shoulders the tiniest iota. Draco raised an eyebrow. Ginny stared back defiantly. “As it turns out,” she said, without a hint of embarrassment in her voice, despite the embarrassment evident in her posture. “Harper fancies me.”

“Goodness, Weasely,” said Draco. “Have you been snogging Slytherins? Potter won’t be too pleased when he hears.”

Ginny blushed scarlet. “I have _not_ ,” she said hotly. “I just led him on a bit. He let us right in.”

“Getting in your room was trickier,” said Luna. “But we were able to find the counter-spell eventually. Turns out you were quite hasty with your spellwork when you locked it.” She moved her wand to his face.

“Why did you come looking for me?” Draco closed his eyes to block out the light.

“I noticed you weren’t at the Halloween Feast,” said Luna. Draco got a funny feeling in his stomach. He had completely forgotten about Halloween. “It worried me. I asked around and a first-year without a grudge told me he’d seen you come running back on Saturday. So we decided to investigate.”

The bright glow vanished from his face, but he kept his eyes closed. “Why didn’t you get the professors?”

“I wanted to,” said Ginny. “It would have saved a lot of trouble. But Luna wouldn’t let me.”

Draco smirked. “Like she could stop you.”

“I know you don’t understand real friendship, Malfoy, but that’s how it works.”

Draco opened his eyes so he could glare at her again.

“I knew you would be very put-out if we got professors involved,” said Luna easily. “And considering you very nearly bit our heads off when we woke you up, I was right. It took us six hours to extract all of the ingredients and find an antidote.”

“It’s not a poison,” Draco grumbled.

“It was almost the Draught of Living Death,” Ginny protested. “If we hadn’t woken you—”

“Yes, _thank you_ , Weasely,” Draco snapped. “If it weren’t for you, I’d—”

“Is there any more?” Luna interrupted. Her wandwork had finished up his legs. The blisters were gone and the pain was so much lessened that Draco hardly noticed or cared that several patches still felt like he had been very badly sunburned.

“No,” Draco lied immediately. Luna gave him that inquisitive look. “There’s not,” Draco repeated. “I destroyed most of it trying to find a good modification.”

“Will you be making more?”

“Why would I? You said yourself it could have killed me,” Luna frowned. “Besides,” Draco added hurriedly. “If you extracted all of the ingredients, you’d know there was Lethe River Water in it, and that’s not exactly lying around for anybody to pick up.”

“Where did you get that, anyway?” Ginny asked.

Draco looked down and picked at the threads of his burned sleeves. “It doesn’t matter. It was a very brief opportunity and I took it. It won’t be happening again anytime soon.”

“How do we know?” Ginny demanded. Draco got to his feet. His limbs felt very heavy.

“You don’t,” he said shortly. “Now, you can shove off. Both of you.”

“Draco,” Luna sounded disapproving. She stayed where she was on the floor. Ginny lifted her hands and went to the door.

“I’m going, Luna,” she said. “I want to get some sleep before class tomorrow.”

“All right. Good night, and thank you,” Luna called as Ginny disappeared through his door. Draco gave her several long seconds to leave before he faced Luna again.

“What do you want?”

“I want to know why you drank that potion,” said Luna.

“Why would I want to take a potion that helps me sleep? You’re in Ravenclaw, Lovegood; you’re supposed to be smart. Figure it out.”

“It’s obvious that you aren’t sleeping well,” said Luna, with a rare hint of exasperation. “I’ve known that since the start of term. I want to know why you modified an entirely new potion—modified it from extremely dangerous ones—and then drank _that_.”

Draco wanted to tell her off again, but she sat looking up at him with her furrowed forehead and slightly pursed lips and— _damn_ it, he owed her. He didn’t want to believe it, he didn’t want to admit it, but she had not only probably saved him from missing a day or so of school (he didn’t believe it would have killed him), not only had she healed him, but she’d been helping him intermittently from day one (god knew why) and without her he probably wouldn’t have lasted this long.

 _Fine,_ Draco thought in exasperation. _If you want knowledge in return, you can have it._ It was his own fault, anyway, for accepting her help. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and she wrapped her arms around her knees, looking expectant. He thought for a full minute, choosing his words carefully. Just because he was going to give her some answers didn’t mean she had to know _all_ of them.

“I’ve been drinking regular sleeping potions for some time,” he said at last, slowly. “Mother sends them to me, but I’ve been building up a tolerance.”

“Could you increase the dose?” asked Luna.

Draco shrugged one shoulder. “Yes, but if I did that, she’d have to send me more.” He anticipated the next question before she asked it, “And I won’t go to Madame Promfrey for them.”

“She can’t send you more?”

“She could, and she would, but if I asked she’d want to know why.” Luna did not look satisfied with this answer. He looked at the floor and bit the inside of his lower lip. “The regular potion isn’t really satisfactory anymore anyway. It helps me get to sleep, but I still…dream a lot.”

Luna rested her chin on her knees. She waited a long time before prompting, “What about?”

It wasn’t as if she couldn’t guess, so Draco shrugged again. “The war, mostly. They aren’t exactly proper dreams. More like memories, magnified and mixed together.”

Luna let out a quiet affirmative sound. Draco glanced at her. She smiled faintly. “The kind that you try to suppress during the day? Those memories?” Draco gave a stiff nod. “Why don’t you want your mother to know about them? It’s a problem if they’re getting worse.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Draco ran a hand through his hair. “My parents have enough to worry about, Mother especially. I’m not going to pile this on them.”

“It helps if you talk to someone about it,” said Luna.

Draco gave a sharp laugh. “Does it? Does it really? That’s the other reason I won’t tell Mother, she’d say the same thing. Who am I supposed to tell? I can’t tell Father, he’ll deny anything’s wrong. I can’t tell Mother, it’ll only hurt her. I can’t tell some Divinator or Psychic, what are they going to care? They’ll tell me I brought it on myself, and they’ll be right.”

The long, pregnant silence that followed told Draco he’d said too much—again. He gripped his knees and pressed his lips together, looking at the ground beneath his feet.

“You could tell me,” said Luna at last. Draco laughed again, but Luna continued. “I can’t go to Daddy either. Ginny and I, we both have those memories. We talk to each other about them and they get easier.”

“Right,” said Draco dryly. “I’ll tell you all about my worst nightmares, because you can understand exactly what it’s like being a Death Eater.”

“You could help me understand.”

“No thanks.”

“You could show me a memory.”

Draco jumped to his feet and glared down at her. “Drop it, Lovegood.”

Luna stared back up at him placid and defiant at the same time. “I may not know what it’s like being a Death Eater, Draco, but don’t forget I went through dreadful things too, and so did Daddy. You were there for some of them.”

Draco stepped backwards, a strange giggle erupting from somewhere inside him. “Right, Lovegood, right. You’ve made your point—you’re superior to me by miles, you’re the Death Eater antithesis, you repay evil with good, you’re goodness personified, you’re a _saint_. Now get out.”

“Draco, I’m trying to help.”

“I _know_ ,” Draco stepped back. “I thought you would have picked up by now that I don’t want your help. I don’t want to be your pity project. So go on, Lovegood.” Draco whirled around and took off his cloak, twisting it into a ball and throwing it into a basket of dirty laundry. “Write in your magazine, fantasize and chase and go on about your non-existent superstitious creatures if it makes you and Daddy Dear feel better, if it helps you block out the memories inflicted on you, if it helps you both manage to barricade yourselves out of the loony bin—which is where you belonged from the start.” He turned back around, lifting a hand to point and preparing to shout— _anything_ to get her to leave—but the sight stopped him cold.

Luna was standing, mouth partly open. Her arms hung stiff at her sides, fists clenched tight, her already wide eyes looking even larger and shimmering as she blanched. She shut her mouth, clenching her jaw, and her lip trembled. Draco lowered his hand.

“I—” he started, not knowing what he was going to say. Luna didn’t let him find out. Her eyes got brighter. She whirled on her heel and stalked out of his room, head held high, hair swishing from side to side. She was barefoot.

Draco stared at the door long after she’d left. At last he shook himself and shut the door, barricading it with new spells and taking his time about it. “Fine time to decide to be dramatic,” he grumbled to himself. He threw himself down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It had to be very late now, but try as he might, he couldn’t get to sleep. He repackaged his emotions and thoughts and sealed them tight, and gradually the adrenaline settled, and he sank into the mattress, feeling utterly relaxed—but very awake. He smiled again.

 _Perhaps more flobberworm mucus,_ he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, remembering that he had not prepared his homework for tomorrow—and may as well do it while he felt so alert rather than lay skulking in bed and waiting for the sun to rise. _Or I could mix it with Mother’s._

He just had to make some modifications, that was all. And he could take his time about it, ensuring it was absolutely safe—he had never felt so well-rested in his life, at least not that he could remember. Sure, those twenty seconds of losing consciousness had been torture (Draco shivered), but if the result was not being exhausted and feeling this surge of _life_ and confidence, it was absolutely worth it. Draco pulled out his school books and did his homework. And when that was finished, he had his most successful charm-practicing session of the term. It was such fun that he did it far into the early morning and nearly forgot to get breakfast before his first class, despite his not having eaten for approximately forty-eight hours before.


	5. Chapter 5

He was walking with a swagger. It wasn’t intentional, it just happened. Draco, practically bursting at the seams with confidence, had some of the best days of the term. That Monday, he actually spoke up in Defense Against the Dark Arts, giving a dignified and perfect description of how to find and recognize a blood-trail left by a rogue vampire. In transfiguration, he silenced the class when it was his turn to attempt a conjuration and an African wild dog leapt into the room. It then proceeded to chase a Hufflepuff, snarling and biting, but Draco quickly vanished it, not bothering to hide his smirk. The only hiccup came in charms, when he arrived and realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that Luna was absent. He quickly parceled that emotion away and proceeded to give such a perfect demonstration of a non-verbal invisibility spell, making half the classroom appear empty, that Flitwick awarded Slytherin ten points.

Tuesday was even better. Professor Sprout nodded at him in approval when observing the growth of his Snargaluff stumps. In potions, he surprised even himself by completing Wolfsbane Potion twenty minutes before anyone else. Upon his presentation of the final product, Slughorn was so delighted with the timeliness and shimmering colors and smooth consistency and perfect plumes of smoke that he awarded Slytherin twenty points on the spot.

Draco felt that nothing could color this string of victories—a foolish sentiment, as proved by Charms class on Wednesday. Draco had tried to not think about it, not wonder if Luna would be there, but seeing the back of her head made his stomach jolt. She sat very quietly and Draco tried and failed to be flamboyant. She leaned over her textbook and practiced her charms with a brown-haired Ravenclaw with a squat face. It wouldn’t have bothered him—he told herself—except she kept her face turned away from him the entire class period. His bother turned to severe discomfort and then, near the end, when Luna answered one of Flitwick’s questions so quietly Draco couldn’t even hear it, to guilt.

_All right,_ he decided, irritated that he felt guilty. _I’ll say I’m sorry._

He pretended to be searching for something in his bag as the rest of the students filed out of the classroom, keeping his head down. Luna moved slowly as well. She turned to leave, and Draco saw her face for the first time. His first thought was that she looked ill. She seemed tired but Draco couldn’t decide if that was because she truly was tired or if because her curious, wondering eyes were downcast and her peculiar smile was nowhere to be seen. Draco moved out into the isle to intercept her.

“Miss Lovegood,” said Flitwick. “May I speak to you a moment?”

Draco internally cursed as Luna turned around and went back to the front. It was too conspicuous for him to be standing there now, as the final students trickled from the room, so Draco walked from the room as slowly as he could then stood against the wall next to the classroom doors and listened.

“Are you all right, Miss Lovegood? We missed you in class Monday.”

Draco strained his ears, but he could only just make out the murmur of Luna’s voice, not the words.

“It’s quite all right, I just wanted to ensure that you were…no? Did you see Madam Pomfrey?...Do you need an excuse from class?...Are you sure?...Well, all right. If you change your mind, just let me know.”

Draco held his breath. Her steps came softly, then she left the room. Draco jumped forward and put a hand on her arm. “Luna.”

She jumped and whirled. For a single, terrible instant their eyes met and she stared at him as if he were a predator. Then she spun around and hurried off, arms wrapped around her books and her head down.

“Luna!” Draco called again, louder, too surprised to make another move. He watched her disappear, then scowled and cursed again—out loud this time.

“Please watch your language, Mr. Malfoy,” said Professor Flitwick as he walked past him, jacket slung over his shoulder.

“Sorry, Professor,” Draco muttered out of habit. As he headed to the common room, his irritation grew into anger. Since when was she so sensitive? Since when did she actually care what anybody said to her? Luna Lovegood was the definition of calm, collected, and aloof. Well, if she insisted on being stubborn, he would be too. He had meant to start rejecting her offers of help anyway. And he didn’t need it—he had his potion, he had his bucketload of points won for Slytherin—fifty now, he’d won twenty more today (five from Slughorn, fifteen grudgingly awarded by Sprout when Draco quickly immobilized a Snargaluff that very nearly tore Hannah Abbot’s eyes out. She had looked just as annoyed at his rescuing her as Sprout).

These sorts of thoughts running through his head, he carefully put away thoughts of Luna and replaced them with trying to remember where he had put his experimental notes that morning. He again began to feel buoyed by his successes of the past few days. He hadn’t won points for a very long time –worrying about the House Cup felt like a lifetime ago, and it was deliciously fun to even think about it again.

“Malfoy,” a voice stopped him in the middle of his usual quick, shadowy trek across the common room. Surprised, Draco turned. “A word?” Vanessa Travers lounged against the stone fireplace, face illuminated by flickering orange light. She crossed her arms, wand held loosely in one hand. Her minions sat in the chairs near the fire, and at her voice they all stopped talking and looked over at him.

“What?” Draco asked. “Make it quick, will you? I’m busy.”

Travers quirked an eyebrow and waved him over. Draco, curious in spite of himself, went over and stood outside of the ring of firelight, watching the other Slytherins out of the corner of his eyes. Travers lurched upright and sidled over to him. She cocked her head, then slipped one arm partially around his neck. Draco stood stiffly, holding his wand pointed downwards. Travers twirled her own wand in little circles at the wall behind her as she smiled.

“Malfoy,” she said, “What are you playing at?”

He looked down his nose at her, still keeping careful watch on the still, silent onlookers. “What do you mean?’

“You know exactly what I mean,” Travers ran the end of her wand along her cheek and across her mouth, then rested it against Draco’s chest. “Those performances in class? Showing off?”

“Showing off?” Draco repeated. He grabbed Travers’ wand hand with his own and moved it a safe distance away. She smirked.

“We think it needs to stop.”

“Sorry if me being visible bothers you, Travers, but I didn’t come to Hogwarts to care about what you and your girlfriends think.”

The smile disappeared. Travers’ arm slipped from his shoulder and she took one step back. “I don’t think you understand. We are demanding that you stop.” Her eyes flashed, and her wand was no longer loose in her hand. “It’s bad enough you’re here at all, but we will not permit you to spoil the name of Slytherin by—”

“By what, winning house points?” Draco drawled. “I didn’t realize that was such a disgrace.”

“House points won by you are more than a disgrace,” Travers’ dark eyes flashed fire. “You are an embarrassment. And on behalf of all Slytherins, past and present, we are demanding you put an end to it now!”

The words stung, and Draco leveled his gaze with her. “Do you know what I think? I think you’re jealous. I think you’re afraid of being forced to admit that I’m four times the Slytherin that any of you are.”

Travers laughed. “You Malfoys really are cocky ones, aren’t you?”

“Only because it’s well deserved,” said Draco smoothly.

“Is that so?” Travers studied him, then said abruptly, “I am a member of the dueling club. The week before Christmas holidays we have a tournament and anybody, member or nonmember, can challenge those with top scores. If you really want to prove yourself, you’ll challenge me.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch,” said Travers. “Only abject humiliation for one or the other.”

Draco didn’t believe her for one instant. But it took no more than an instant for him to decide to accept anyway. “All right, I’ll keep that in mind,” was all he said and he continued to his room.

*

Luna Lovegood would not stop avoiding him. Draco told himself it wouldn’t bother him; he told himself it didn’t bother him. He did not care that she always sat with her back to him in the dining hall now, or that she acted as though he weren’t there in charms, or slowly returned to her dreamy self in all ways except that she was pretending he didn’t exist. And it came back: that suffocating, separating barrier. That great black emptiness in which Draco hung suspended, entirely and maddeningly alone. He worked feverishly on his potion, taking the time to test it more carefully on rodents and monitoring how long they slept. He couldn’t yet get it to the point where they would wake up on their own.

Luna Lovegood was constantly surrounded by scrolls and writing. Draco could only get close glimpses of her when she passed him in the halls, but he noticed that there were new charms about her neck and a more hardened look in her wide, liquid eyes. Draco ground his knuckles into his own eyes late one Thursday evening, as the meal in the Great Hall was coming to a close. When he looked up, he saw the bright hair of Ginny Weasley sweeping out of sight beyond the doors. He jumped up from the table without thinking and ran after her.

“Weasley!” he hissed, gaining on her on one of the staircases as he took them two at a time. “ _Weasley!_ ”

The staircase jerked under his and Ginny’s feet, moving across the wide expanse and briefly trapping Ginny at the top, just long enough for Draco to catch up and grab her arm.

“Don’t you touch me, Malfoy!” Ginny snapped, whirling with her wand drawn. Draco jumped back. “What do you want?”

“Don’t get your wand in a knot,” quipped Draco, keeping his eye on the said wand. “I just…” Her eyes narrowed. Draco met her gaze and said firmly, “I need to ask a favor.”

Ginny barked a laugh as the staircase ground to a halt. “You think I’m going to grant you a _favor_?”

“It’s about—” Draco glanced over his shoulder to check that they were alone, and Ginny immediately turned around again and started up another staircase. Draco hurried after her. “It’s about Luna.” Ginny turned down an empty hall and Draco stubbornly followed her. “I need you to talk to her for me.”

“Talk to her yourself.”

“I tried, she won’t listen to me.”

“Unlucky you.”

“Weasley, I’m trying to apologize!”

This declaration had the desired effect. Ginny stopped, then slowly turned, hands on her hips and studied him suspiciously. “Apologize,” she repeated.

“Right,” said Draco, feeling awkward but refusing to let it show in his face or voice. “For what I said the other day. But she won’t listen to me. I need you to tell her for me.”

“I’m not going to pass on your apology, Malfoy. That’s just pathetic.”

Draco clenched his jaw. “Then tell me how to get her to listen to me, just long enough to say I’m sorry.”

Ginny was silent for a moment, looking at the ground. When she spoke again her voice was firm and hostile, but no longer aggressive. “I don’t know how you can get her to listen to you, Malfoy, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

Draco flushed, struggling to control his anger. “Why not?”

Ginny arched her eyebrows. “What you said really hurt her, Malfoy.”

“Why?” Draco demanded. “I didn’t say anything new, she’s never gotten upset before.”

Ginny’s face contorted in fury. “And that makes it all right, does it?” she snapped. “Just because she hasn’t shown any hurt before now, its fine to bully her, is it?”

Draco’s blood pounded in his forehead. “No! That’s not it!” he growled.

“Well congratulations, Malfoy,” Ginny continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “You’ve successfully alienated the only person willing to treat you like the decent human being you aren’t. She was trying very hard, you know.”

Draco had not expected this. “Now hold on—wait—trying to –what?”

Ginny laughed cruelly and turned away. “Merlin’s beard, you are clueless.”

“Look, I’m trying to apologize, what else do you want?” Draco demanded, dogging her footsteps again. “What was she trying to do?”

“If you haven’t figured it out, and if she hasn’t told you, I’m not doing to divulge that information,” said Ginny. “And you’ve ruined it at this point, which I honestly believe is the best thing for her.”

“But what do I—”

“Draco Malfoy,” Ginny turned and pointed her wand at his face. “If you continue to harass me—if you harass Luna—I am going to hex you into next Tuesday.”

Draco watched her walk away, then spun on his heel and stalked down the hallway, furious, his mind racing and failing to come up with any answers, his blood pressure slowly rising. What had he said to upset Luna? Why was she upset now, when she hadn’t been all those years before? What had she been trying to do? Why was Ginny so damn enigmatic about it? Why did she want Luna to stop? And—most importantly of all—why was Draco such an idiotic _git_?

Draco started down one hallway, heard the sound of Peeves, and, cursing, took a detour. Peeves delighted in causing a ruckus whenever he ran into Draco, usually with chants about old dead You-Know-Who, snakes, and dark marks, and general uncomfortableness. But as Draco descended back-way stairs and crept through empty halls, his ears grew suddenly fuzzy and lazy and he stopped. After a moment of confusion he recognized the effects of the Muffliato charm. Damn. He did not want to run into a snogging couple, not now. But his only other choice was going all the way back, perhaps running into Peeves…Draco decided to take his chances. He muttered the counter-incantation. His ears cleared and Draco moved cautiously, eyes and ears alert. Then, all-too familiar sounds, all-too familiar tones. Draco felt like a hand had gripped his lungs and squeezed the air from them. He picked up his pace, footsteps silent in the wide hall as his ears picked up the sound of quiet, wet gasping and smooth cruelty through a small opening to the left.

“Are you going to use such arrogance with me again?” A whimper. “Are you, pig-squalor?”

Draco slipped into the hall on the left and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. The narrow corridor ended in front of a locked maintenance closet. “Picking fights with first-years now, are we, Vanessa?”

It was the same group, the fourth-fifth-and-sixth years, five of them, Travers at their head with her shimmering waves of dark hair and narrow eyes. At his voice they turned and Draco saw the first year on the ground with his arms over his head, green tie loose and dangling. “Oh look,” said Travers. “The blood-traitor is here to defend the filth.” She leveled green, glittering eyes on him. “There are five of us, and one of you.”

“It won’t be an ambush this time,” Draco said coolly. The sixth-year made a quick movement and Draco lazily whipped out his wand without moving from his relaxed position. Travers held up her hand and the sixth-year, though keeping her wand drawn, did nothing. “Out of the six of us,” Draco continued as if nothing had happened, “Which one of us has experience in dueling for his life? And who do you suppose was his teacher?”

Travers’ lips flattened. Then, as she looked at him, a look of calm cruelty and knowing amusement spread across her face. Draco narrowed his eyes. “Very well then,” said Travers. The drawn wands were lowered. Draco kept his up. They left as a group, edging their way back down the narrow hallway. As Travers brushed passed him, she murmured, “All yours, Malfoy.”

Draco waited until their footsteps faded before going forward. The first-year stayed on the ground, head between his knees, arms still up in the protective position.

“They’re gone,” Draco said, and the first-year slowly uncurled and looked up. His wide, brown eyes were blank and unfocused. Draco clenched and relaxed his jaw. “Can you see?”

“No,” the first-year whispered, panic in his voice.

Draco cursed under his breath. “Anything else the matter with you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Get up.” Draco grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. “What’s your name?”

“J-Jamie Greengrass,” said the boy.

“Greengrass, good family name,” said Draco automatically. The Greengrasses were one of the few families—and the only purebloods—that kept at all in touch with his. This contact must have been what prompted the attack on Jamie.

“Are you a prefect?” asked the boy timidly.

“No,” said Draco. Then quickly, before he could ask more questions, “Come with me, we’ll get you up to the hospital wing.”

The boy, however, didn’t move. And suddenly great tears welled in his unfocused eyes. Draco flinched, irritation crawling across his skin. He didn’t mind chasing overgrown bullies away from first-years, but that didn’t mean he wanted to babysit them and coddle their feelings. “What?” he asked sharply.

“I’m not—I shouldn’t—” Jamie hesitated, then wailed, “I shouldn’t be in Slytherin! I should’ve known better! I should be in Hufflepuff, or Ravenclaw, I should have told the Hat that, I shouldn’t have let it put me in Slytherin, why didn’t I know better—”

“Shut your mouth,” said Draco grabbing Jamie’s elbow and pulling him along. “Biggest pile of poppycock I’ve ever heard. If the Hat put you in Slytherin, you’re supposed to be in Slytherin. _Shame_ on you for abandoning your House like that; I almost regret stopping them.”

“B-b-but,” stuttered Jamie. “Th-th-they said I don’t belong—th-that’s why they cornered me—people’l’ve been calling me names all term—”

“Rubbish,” snapped Draco. “Plenty of you have been Slytherin, of course you belong. It’s a long tradition. Astoria’s in Slytherin, so was Daphne. And if you disgrace the name of Slytherin, so help me, I’ll hex you myself. So no more talk about not belonging.”

Jamie sniffled. “Really?” he said, sounding water-logged but hopeful. “It’s a long tradition? But they said—”

“Forget what Travers said,” growled Draco. “And listen to me. This is what you’re going to do. Just a piece of advice, from Slytherin to Slytherin. You say they’ve been bullying you?”

“Yeah,” said Jamie softly. “I don’t have any friends here. I…I almost decided to give up and go home.”

“You’re in Slytherin,” said Draco, annoyed. “You want friends? Make some. Don’t go whining to me about it. Try Hufflepuff if you can’t find any in Slytherin, just a suggestion. And now, about Travers...she attacked you once, she and her cronies will probably do it again.”

“I should go to a teacher?” asked Jamie timidly.

“Absolutely not. That’ll just make it worse. Because if they attack you again, what good will it do to report it? It’ll be your word against theirs. And if you tell the professors, and if they reprimand the gang, they’ll just know to do it more secretly. No, you do not tell the professors. You do not tell anyone. You are going to march into the hospital wing, make up a story, and tell Madam Pomfrey you made it up there by yourself. Then when you’re discharged, you’re going to stick to your story and act like nothing else happened. Then you are going to get your revenge on Travers.”

“How?” asked Jamie.

“You’re a Slytherin. You figure it out. Make some friends, get some allies, do something to Travers, but keep it secret that it’s you who’s doing it. And _stick to your story_ …you were not attacked, you are not afraid, and you are in charge of your own world at Hogwarts. Got it?” He stopped. They were in front of the hospital wing’s door. “That’s how you’ll stop the bullies. Become stronger than them.”

Jamie was frowning slightly. “I don’t know…”

“You have Astoria and Daphne to live up to,” said Draco. “Don’t let them down.”

Jamie blinked, staring vacantly in Draco’s general direction. “Who?”

It was Draco’s turn to frown. “Astoria and Daphne,” he repeated.

Jamie shuffled his feet. “I don’t know who they are…are they famous witches?”

Draco stared at him in amazement, suddenly much more concerned for the first-year’s medical condition. Had Travers dared to hit him with damaging memory charms? “Astoria and Daphne _Greengrass_ ,” he emphasized. “They’re your cousins or something, aren’t they?”

“I don’t think so,” said Jamie. “Wait, isn’t there a girl here now named Astoria?”

“Yes,” said Draco, exasperated. Maybe Jamie was just stupid. “Astoria Greengrass. That’s her.”

Jamie’s face brightened. “Wow! I didn’t know that was her last name! She’s a lot older than me, so I’m not around her much—but that’s so cool! We might be distantly related!”

“That’s the general idea,” said Draco, still confused. “You sure you don’t know who they are?”

“No,” said Jamie. “But why would I? I mean, when the Wizard showed up to explain things he said a lot of stuff about magic that can pop up suddenly inherited from distant relatives. I didn’t know anything at all, and neither did my parents, until we got the letter.”

Draco felt like the pit of his stomach had dropped to the floor. “Didn’t know…what?”

“Anything,” Jamie repeated. “I thought I would be really terrible at magic because my parents, but it hasn’t been so bad.”

“Jamie,” Draco said slowly. “What are your parents?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…are they pure-bloods, half-bloods, or Squibs, or what?”

“What?” said Jamie, cocking his head. “None of those, they’re just Muggles.”

Draco stared at Jamie Greengrass, his head buzzing and his mind gone completely numb. “You’re muggle-born,” he said, deadpan.

“Yes,” said Jamie, twisting his hands and looking a bit frightened.

“The Hat put you in Slytherin.”

“Right. But you said there have been lots of us in Slytherin, right? That it was a long tradition?”

Draco did not know what to say. A distant part of him said that in other circumstances he might be laughing scathingly right now, but he couldn’t access the correct portion of his brain that controlled the laughing reflex, so he mumbled instead, “…right...”

Jamie relaxed. “Should I go in now?”

“Huh?” Draco shook himself. “Oh. Right.” Jamie groped for the door and his hand found the handle. “Remember,” Draco said as he turned to go, “You went up here by yourself.” He hurried away from the door, pretending he didn’t hear Jamie’s call from behind him.

“Hey, are you still there? What’s your name? Hello?”

*

Not in the least encouraged by Ginny’s refusal to help, Draco returned to skulking about after class trying to catch Luna off her guard and without Ginny. The one time he was nearly successful – stepping in front of her in a narrow hall – she serenely ducked under his arm and continued on her way as if completely unaware that she had literally bent double to get around him. He considered writing her a note and having an owl deliver it – but he doubted any of the school owls would listen to his instructions to deliver it when Luna was alone. Even the animals could be vindictive. Several nasty bites had convinced him to never use an owl other than Salazar if he could help it. Despairing of any other option, Draco decided to trap her. He needed a small, private space and the obvious option was the little clock tower room. Draco began to haunt the clock tower’s courtyard after classes, hidden behind a pillar in a dark corner. He watched and waited for two long afternoons before he glanced out in time to see her disappear into the inner workings of the tower. Draco jerked back behind his pillar, heart pounding and stomach twisting in nervous nausea.

_Now or never,_ he told himself. _Now or never._ But it was several minutes before he gathered up the courage to get up, hurry across the empty space, and pull himself up. There was a small set of service stairs, and Draco was halfway up them before his brain clicked into gear and he realized Luna already had company.

“It’s too much, Luna, you’re going to make yourself sick.” Ginny Weasley. Of course, Merlin’s beard, why hadn’t he followed her right away?

“It’s temporary,” said Luna dreamily. “And I’m getting so much life experience. I’m sure Daddy worked much harder than this.”

Ginny was silent for several moments. Draco go the impression that she wanted to vehemently disagree, but she finally said tightly, “Be that as it may, your father doesn’t want this for you.”

“That’s not true, and you know it, Ginny. He asked me.” Draco unconsciously leaned forward, curiosity crowding out other thoughts, hanging on their words.

“I know he did, but he didn’t realize what he was asking! It’s temporary, like you said, do you think he’d want you sacrifice your education for this?’

“Don’t be silly, I’m not sacrificing anything.”

“Oh, really? What was your grade on your last herbology essay?”

Luna’s voice lost a significant portion of its dreaminess. “I passed,” she said firmly.

“You passed. _Passed_ , Luna? That’s not anywhere good enough for you, you know that.”

“Some things are more important than grades,” said Luna quietly.

“Of course they are, Luna, but,” Ginny sounded desperate and at a loss. “Do you think this is what your father wanted? Do you think he meant to put you through this when he asked you? Do you think he’ll thank you when he finds out your education is suffering because of it? We have our NEWTs this year—”

Luna’s voice completely void of its dreamy undertones was very alarming. Draco took one step down. “I am perfectly aware of what’s expected of me. If you don’t want to help anymore—”

“Of course I’ll keep helping, Luna, that’s not what this is about. But my help isn’t _enough_ , that’s what this is about.” She sighed. “Look, just hire someone, won’t you?”

“I can’t hire someone to take my place—”

“No, of course not! I just mean hire more _help_.”

“We can’t afford hired help. There are enough – expenses—as it is.”

“It doesn’t have to be expensive. Look, I’ll write to my brothers and to Harry. Hermione has a working relationship with Rita Skeeter.”

Luna laughed – to Draco’s relief, it sounded like a real one. “I’m not going to hire Rita Skeeter.”

Ginny laughed too. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. Just use her and other people to find some young, eager, recently-graduated intern. Someone who, like yourself, just wants real-world experience. Someone talented but without other prospects. You won’t have to pay them much, if you pay them anything at all. Put out an ad in the Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, and the Quibbler itself. Someone will turn up.” Luna was quiet. “Just…think about it? Please?”

“All right, Ginny, I’ll think about it. And…thank you.”

“Anytime.”

The boards above his head creaked and Draco realized almost too late that Ginny was leaving. He scrambled, turning around in the small space and dropped to the ground outside of the mechanism. He hurried to another part of the courtyard and leaned casually against a wall in the shadows, watching as Ginny emerged and, thankfully, went in the opposite direction. He hurried back, took a deep breath, and hoisted himself up again. He climbed the short staircase and poked his head up into the small space. Open scrolls were spread across the dusty wooden surface, weighed down by brightly painted and oddly shaped paperweights. Luna’s bare toes had drawn tracks through the dust as she leaned over the scrolls on her knees. She half-turned. “Did you—” She stopped and went white at the sight of him.

“Hi, Luna,” said Draco.

 “Were you eavesdropping?”

“No,” Draco lied quickly, caught off-guard by the unexpected accusation.

She cocked her head and said dreamily, and coldly, “You’re lying.”

“No I’m not!”  Draco insisted. This was not how he had envisaged this. But then again, what had he expected? She had nowhere to go; he was blocking the only exit. Draco gripped the floor with his hands and pulled himself up so that he was half-sitting, half-standing still on the stairs and looking Luna in the face. “I came to see you. I heard you and Ginny talking about you hiring someone, but that’s it!”

Luna studied him silently, then turned away and started rolling up one of her multiple scrolls. “What do you want?”

“To apologize,” said Draco, watching her hands expertly roll up the obscenely long sheaf of paper into a tight scroll. She tapped it with her wand so that it sealed itself and started on the next one.

“Do it, then.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Yes, you did.” She spoke softly, with the bluntness that came from someone who simply _knows_ , not someone who baselessly guesses and accuses.

Draco clenched the edge of the floorboards. “No I didn’t,” he repeated. “I didn’t know it would hurt you. I just wanted you to leave.”

“Then it worked, didn’t it?”

“I didn’t want you to stay away, Lovegood, I just wanted you out of my room.”

“Because you were embarrassed that you had just admitted you regretted becoming a Death Eater, that you feel guilty about what you did and what you played a part in, and that you aren’t nearly as tough and put-together as you want everybody to think, yes, I know.” She still spoke in that non-accusatory, matter-of-fact tone.

Draco flushed. “Your point being?”

“My point being,” Luna serenely placed four of the scrolls in her bag. “A small part of you might be sorry you hurt me because you didn’t want to hurt me, but a much larger part of you simply wants me to be around. You are used to being surrounded by friendly faces. You hate being alone. You are attention-starved. And so you are sorry you pushed me away and you want me to come back so you don’t have to be alone again.”

“That’s not true!”  Draco snarled. She gave him a cool glance and, rolling up the last of the scrolls, put them in her bag.

“Excuse me, Draco, I would like to go down now.”

Draco didn’t move. He jumped down from the ledge, blocking her way fully again. He had come here to apologize and she was going to hear it whether she wanted to or not. Desperately, he pleaded, “I said I’m sorry, Lovegood!”

“I heard you,” she drew her wand. “Excuse me. I don’t want to stun you, Draco, but I will if I have to.”

Draco moved back, slowly and reluctantly. He dropped out of the mechanism first and Luna followed, landing silently on her feet like a cat. Holding her satchel across her body, she started off at a brisk pace, hair swishing behind her back. Draco hesitated only for a moment, then he followed. “Luna, I’m sorry. What do I have to do for you to forgive me?”

Luna stopped, to his utter astonishment, and turned to face him. She looked up at him with a slight frown, as if seriously contemplating his question. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I thought I did, but I don’t.”

Draco had no idea what this comment was supposed to mean. He took a deep breath. “I won’t deny anything you said again, all right? Maybe it’s true, I don’t know, I’m a right sodding git, okay? But I really didn’t mean to hurt you, and I’d rather you not be hurt whether you continue to pretend I don’t exist or not.”

Luna’s eyebrows raised a fraction. “Okay,” was all she said.

“Okay?” Draco repeated, blankly.

“You say you’re really sorry?”

“Yeah.”

“Prove it.”

“ _How?_ ” Draco demanded, exasperated.

“I don’t know. You’re in Slytherin, if you want it badly enough you’ll figure it out.” and then she turned around and started walking away again.

Draco followed slowly, letting her get further ahead. “Where are you going?”

“Somewhere you won’t follow. I have work to do,” she called back.

“Ravenclaw common rooms, then?” Draco asked, daring to joke a bit.

“The astronomy tower,” she said.

Draco stopped short, feeling betrayed and furious.

_She’s wrong,_ he thought fiercely. _I would, if I wanted—slimy little—she wouldn’t—_

But she was right. Draco would not follow her into the astronomy tower.

*

Draco expected to feel either crushed or jubilant after finally clearing the air with Luna. But now he just felt angry, mostly directed at her. He had tried, he had tried harder than he ever had, and it still wasn’t good enough. Couldn’t she tell he was _trying_? If he wasn’t so angrily determined to not think about Luna, he would have puzzled over his overheard conversation. He could only assume it had something to do with the Quibbler, but what exactly it meant that Luna had to hire somebody wasn’t something he could figure out – at least, not while he was determinedly not thinking about anything to do with the Lovegoods. So instead, feeling the stress creeping up and taking over him again, he worked on his potion and sat more quietly in class, though he did still earn Slytherin points just for the satisfaction of seeing the quiet anger of Vanessa Travers.

And speaking of Vanessa Travers, in the second weekend in November the Saturday of the first Quidditch match dawned, something very interesting happened at the breakfast table.

Draco was undecided about whether he dared show his face at the match or not. He didn’t really have a desire to see the Slytherin team slaughtered by Gryffindor—but still, it was Quidditch…he would get some slight satisfaction if the Slytherin seeker missed the snitch (come to think of it, he didn’t even know who that was; Harper was Keeper now) which they most definitely would because at the moment Ginny Weasley was the Gryffindor seeker…and his presence would annoy Travers so that was another plus. But, either way, he decided to get breakfast just in case. Two and a half months into the school year, people were finally getting bored of shooting hexes and jinxes at him, especially as he usually deflected every single one.

As he sat mentally wrestling this difficult question, Travers jumped up from the table so quickly that several dishes crashed to the floor, screaming. The rest of the table also jumped up, scrambling away with shrieks. “What’s this?” Travers cried. “What is _that_?” Somebody else screamed. The entire Great Hall went silent, then started murmuring. There was what looked to be splatters of blood down her front and—Draco raised his eyebrows—cockroaches were scuttling out from her plate of what probably used to be scrambled eggs and toast.

“Travers,” Slughorn came down from the staff table. “What’s the meaning of this? What happened?”

“Our food exploded with this, sir,” spat Travers, her face a bright red. “Just wait until I get my hands on those house-elves—”

“Now, stop, stop, no harm done,” said Slughorn easily, siphoning off the fake blood with a wave of his wand as Draco watched with great amusement. “I highly doubt the house-elves are to blame. Must be an accident or an innocent prank—you know how Quidditch stirs up those negative feelings—”

The expression on Travers’ face changed. She suddenly shuddered and clutched at her own arms. “Oh…” her eyes went wide and she squirmed, dancing back and forth on her feet. “Ooohh, Professor, I feel strange…”

“Let me see,” ordered Slughorn, and he pushed back the sleeve of one robe. “Dear, dear,” he said. “You have a most nasty rash—” Titters broke out in the Great Hall. Draco smirked, propping his chin on his palm.

Travers went from red to green. “I _what_?” she gasped in a mortified whisper, looking around the Great Hall.

“Must be from that potion—looks like Irritable Itching, a joke shop item—dear, dear—to Madame Pomfrey’s with you—”

Travers’ eyes landed on Draco and an intense hatred burned there. Unperturbed, Draco prolonged the eye contact and raised both eyebrows. _Wasn’t me._

“Travers?” piped an innocent voice, interrupting. Travers spun and glared down. Draco’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Oh. _Oh…_ it was Jamie, standing there with a small vial in his hand. “You said Irritable Itching, Professor? Look, I happen to have the antidote with me.” He waved it in front of her face. “You want it?”

Travers went from green back to red and nearly to purple. “I don’t need help from you, you—”

“Oh, okay then,” said Jamie easily. He turned and walked down the length of the table a few paces, stopping at an older girl with light brown hair. “You want it, Astoria? Just in case?” Astoria did not look like she wanted it, but she took it and hid a grin behind her hand, whispering to her friend seated beside her.

“My girl, it’s reached your face,” warned Slughorn.

Travers made an indistinguishable sound of rage and raced from the hall as purple blotches spread further over her cheeks. Draco, highly amused, watched Jamie swagger over to the Hufflepuff table where he sat down and slapped the palm of another young student underneath the table. He got up, with half a mind to go over and congratulate Jamie, but his movement drew the kid’s attention. Jamie glanced at him, and then hastily looked away. Draco froze and his throat knotted briefly. Right. He was still the outcast. Jamie didn’t know that he knew him in any other context.

Draco went back to the Slytherin dormitories, absently twisting his ring on his fingers. Above him he knew students would be starting to the re-built Quidditch pitch. In his mind he kept replaying the satisfied, confident smile of Jamie Greengrass, Muggle-born Slytherin. He wondered if Travers knew who was behind the attack. He wondered if Jamie would survive if she decided to retaliate. Draco frowned. If she did, Jamie’s confidence might not last long—he might break down—Draco did not want Travers to have that satisfaction. Yes, Jamie was off to a fantastic start, but he had a long way to go. Draco stopped twisting the ring, a sudden, mad idea taking place in his head.

_No,_ he thought.

_Yes,_ his mind said.

_No,_ he thought. _I can’t just—what would mother and father say?_

_It’s not theirs,_ his mind said. _It’s yours. And you don’t really need it anymore, do you? Do you really get pride from it anymore?_

_Yes, of course I do._

_Do you get pride that’s actually worth anything, or is it just satisfaction? A childish pride in things that no longer matter to you? A pride that does not help you improve any longer?_

Draco glanced around the common room, then slipped through the door of the first-year boys dormitories. They were a mess, clothes flung everywhere and homework abandoned on the floor and ink spilled across one bedspread. But it wasn’t hard to find Jamie’s bed and beside table, because his was the only one with a non-moving poster about football.

Draco hesitated again, feeling simultaneously sick and determined for reasons he couldn’t explain. He grabbed a spare scrap of paper and a random quill.

_To Jamie, so that he must continue to show himself a true Slytherin._

_From his friend_

Draco set the paper down on Jamie’s table and then, in a swift movement that did not give him enough time to change his mind, he removed his House ring from his finger, set it on the paper, then left the room, closing the door behind him.

Still not allowing himself to think, he went out across the fields towards the Quidditch pitch walking abnormally fast. The pitch was not as glorious as it used to be (still in the midst of construction) but its foundation and skeleton and field and hoops were rebuilt; it was only the decorative banners and polished wooden benches (instead of the current rough-hewn ones) that were lacking. Cheers already came from the field as he hurried towards it. He climbed up to the stands, not even bothering to take a seat. He merely stood in a corner with his hand on the railing, looking over the heads of his fellow Slytherins, watching the game with only mild interest. After a few minutes of this, he realized he really didn’t care. With a quiet sense of mourning, he retreated back down the stairs. He landed on the ground in the shadow of the pitch and started heading back towards the castle. If the match went on for a decent length of time, he would have a nice, long quiet stretch of nothing to do but work on his potion—

“Malfoy! Hey, _Malfoy!_ Wait up!”

Draco stopped dead, a sinking feeling rooting him to the spot. He took too long to decide whether he wanted to run away or stay put, and by that time the person had caught up to him. Draco turned with a jerk.

“Potter. What are you doing here?”

Potter pushed his glasses back and ran a hand through his hair. “Visiting Ginny.”

“Oh.”

“I miss being the Seeker, you know.”

“Right.” Draco woke up. Why was he standing here? He turned his back on Potter and walked away.

“Malfoy, are you keeping in touch with your parents?”

Draco froze. “ _What_?”

Potter caught up to him again and stood in his way, arms folded. “You heard me, are you keeping in touch with your parents?”

“That’s none of your business,” snarled Draco.

Potter looked at him steadily. “Are you?”

“All the time,” said Draco. “Death Eaters have feelings too, you know. We write.”

Potter nodded, looking visibly less tense and deep in thought, as if Draco had just said something very important. “That’s good.”

Draco lifted his chin. “You should know that, though, as you ministry gits intercept everything we send.”

Anger banished the thoughtfulness in Potter’s face. “I’m not a ministry git!”

“Right, sorry, I forgot. You’re only a git-in-training.”

Potter shook his head. “I’m telling you, Malfoy, watch yourself.”

“Oh, are you?” Draco leered. “Are you telling me as a rival, or out of the goodness of your Gryffindorian heart?”

Potter gave Draco a knowing look that infuriated him. Potter was _not_ supposed to give him the same glances that Dumbledore used to, that Severus used to, that Luna gave him now. He did _not_ have that privilege, and as much as he liked to pretend to he could _not_ see inside of Draco’s head. “I’m telling you as an Auror, Malfoy,” said Potter firmly and there was an astonishing amount of authority in his voice. Draco set his jaw and smoldered. “I’m not even supposed to be talking to you. It compromises—well, never mind. I’m warning you – be careful. There’s something—”

“Oi, Potter!”  A Gryffindor whose name Draco did not know called out to them, halfway down the stairs. “Why aren’t you watching the match? Something wrong? Is the Death Eater bothering you? Need me to get the Headmistress?”

Potter gave Draco a meaningful look, and without another word he went back and climbed the pitch stairs, disappearing into the crowd overhead.


	6. Chapter 6

Draco survived the next month thanks to his sleeping potion. He finally tested it again on himself the next weekend. The same nightmarish, half-minute of PTSD-esque flashbacks occurred, but he slept through Saturday to Sunday and woke up naturally Sunday morning. Jubilant at his success and well-rested, he managed to shake off the frustration of Luna abandoning him. He didn’t try to corner her or grab her attention again, and she continued to act as though he didn’t exist.

He didn’t speak to Jamie again, but the boy began wearing the ring. Draco hadn’t noticed him before this point, but now it felt like he saw Jamie everywhere, whether it was frowning in concentration while doing homework in the library, laughing with groups of Hufflepuffs and occasional Slytherins, and waving his hands animatedly so that the light flashed off the ring.

 _Idiot_ , Draco fumed to himself. _What did you give it to him for_? Draco had worn the ring almost constantly since his parents had given it to him third year. The only time he’d taken it off was that time the Death Eaters were helping themselves to Malfoy treasures, and he’d hidden it under his bedroom floorboards. Now, he flinched and inwardly grimaced when he saw it on the muggle-born’s finger. He couldn’t take it back now, though—not without causing a scene. So he chastised himself in private, studying away the time until he could go home for Christmas. He thought of Malfoy Manor with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he was sick of Hogwarts and being alone. But on the other hand, the entire reason he'd returned to Hogwarts was because he had been sick of home. He remembered simultaneously the love of his parents and the absence of open hatred, and the palpable fear and depression and sense of death. He may have dared to write and suggest he stay at Hogwarts for Christmas, but for two things:

1\. Potter’s awkward, bizarre warning made him uneasy. He needed to go home to see for himself that everything was all right.

2\. Despite everything, he missed his parents.

The dueling challenge was almost an afterthought. Draco would have forgotten about it, but as the last week of classes drew to a close, whispers began following him up the corridors.

_“Malfoy’s going to duel Travers.”_

_“Travers challenged Malfoy.”_

_“But Malfoy’s not allowed to duel, is he?”_

_“I heard You-Know-Who himself taught him how to kill.”_

_“I heard he can do all of the Unforgivables.”_

_“I heard he killed Jules Prescott at the Battle of Hogwarts. He had turned seventeen the day before, stayed back to fight—”_

_“Why isn’t he in Azkaban for murder then?”_

_“Nobody could prove it, and the Malfoys bribed the Ministry.”_

_“I heard his mum’s got it with the Senior Undersecretary—”_

Draco bit down on his tongue until he tasted copper and ignored most of the whispers. When he heard the last one he turned, and the murderous look on his face sent the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor scurrying away. Draco wasn’t banned from dueling, per se…he was banned from performing any sort of Dark Magic. Peasegood had let him off for performing the hexes, but he supposed that was because McGonagall had so thoroughly put Peasegood in his place and insisted he not encroach on her authority. He doubted the same sort of mercy would come again if he used any sort of Dark Magic in a public duel, even just a jinx. But all the same, he couldn’t back out of it now that everyone was expecting it. Damn Travers.

The dueling challenges took place the last day before students would begin heading home. Draco headed up to his room, quickly packing away all of his things, locking and triple-locking the trunk and hiding away his potion (he still had a large quantity, to his smug satisfaction) in a drawstring bag that he put multiple concealment charms on before putting it away in a deep corner of the trunk. Then he locked up, drew his wand, and went down to the Great Hall. The duels had already begun. There were four dueling platforms set up at the front of the room, their narrow ends pointing towards the door where Draco stood. On the first platform furthest to the left, an older student stood calling instructions to a younger student. On the second, a Slytherin and Gryffindor were simultaneously shouting “expelliarmus” and “protego.” On the third, a Hufflepuff with a puffy, swollen face aimed a spell at a Ravenclaw who cried out and began hopping up and down, bent double and grabbing at their toes. On the fourth platform, Ginny Weasley was currently locked in combat with none other than Seamus Finnigan. Draco would have thought that Finnigan wouldn’t stand a chance against Weasley, but he was actually doing very decently with a good many firey hexes. The largest crowd was around this last platform.

Draco kept to the back of the crowd and picked up a pamphlet from a table strewn with papers (they appeared to have once been in tidy piles). It read:

**DUELING CLUB BI-ANNUAL SHOWCASE**

After preliminary demonstrative duels among members, any student of Hogwarts may challenge any of the members of the Dueling Club.

Any underage challengers will abide by the First Level Dueling Rules.

Any of-age challengers may challenge the members of their choice to the Level of their choice.

Members may turn down any challenges that they chose.

Members may negotiate the Level at which the Duel will take place, up to the Level permitted by their signed Guardian Permission Slip.

LEVELS:

0: Upon request, of-age dueling members may instruct other students on dueling.

1: Only spells to Disarm will be permitted. All Jinxes and Hexes are banned.

2: All spells up to and including Jinxes are permitted. Hexes are banned.

3: All spells up to and including Hexes are permitted. **Curses are banned.**

Draco looked up from the pamphlet to find Vanessa Travers on the other side of the table looking at him. She held out a paper.

“If you’re thinking of challenging anybody, you fill this out,” she instructed with a smirk. Draco silently took it, writing down his name and Travers’. After briefly hesitating, he set his mouth and wrote down Level 3. He held out the paper to her.

“All right?”

Travers looked much too pleased with herself. “Perfect.” She snatched the paper from his fingers and pranced up to the fourth platform, dropping the paper into a wooden bucket decorated with animated fireworks, then she stepped back and disappeared into the crowd. Draco remained where he was, watching the duels and thinking. With that challenge, he had just permitted Travers to perform at Level 3 while she knew as well as he that he could only perform at Level 1 in order to stay out of trouble. This was foolish and reckless, but his own advice rang in his ears and hardened his resolve.

_That’s how you’ll stop the bullies. Become stronger than them._

So he couldn’t use Dark Magic. That just left defensive magic, disarming spells, charms, and transfiguration. Potions were out of the question, unfortunately, as Wizards were only permitted to use their wands during duels. He remained where he was for another half-hour, as a first- or second-year student drew slips of paper from the bucket and read out the challenges. His gaze became unfocused as he stared at the far wall above the duelers’ heads. He didn’t seem to notice how the crowd grew and how students glanced at him and whispered to each other. He did not stir until the small student’s voice rose several pitches as he read,

“Draco Malfoy vs Vanessa Travers – Level 3.”

Quiet murmurs broke out. Draco’s eyes focused and students stepped out of his and Travers’ way as they both moved towards the platform. Draco jumped on the platform and Travers did the same. Students nudged each other.

“My money’s on Travers. She’s beaten everybody in her year, and everybody above her year at least once except for Weasley.”

“Yeah, but she wasn’t trained by You-Know-Who, was she?”

“Don’t be stupid, Malfoy wasn’t trained by Voldemort—” Draco involuntarily flinched as he bowed to Travers. “—that’s just what he wants people to think. He’s a bloody, lying coward, that’s all.”

Draco set his jaw. He and Travers raised their wands.

“One moment.” The whispers ceased. Saul Croaker, the ex-Unspeakable, new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and overseer of the Dueling Club, pushed his way through the crowds. “Malfoy, a word.”

Draco relaxed his stance and looked down but did not move. He was not going to go with Croaker and whisper shamefully in a corner; whatever he wanted to say to him, he could say in front of the school. He had nothing to hide. “Yes, Professor?”

Croaker looked at him with an _on-your-head-be-it_ expression. “Malfoy, I trust you are aware that the restrictions placed on you by the Ministry of Magic are not relaxed even in instances of agreed-upon duels?”

“Perfectly, Professor.”

“And so you are aware that, during this Level 3 duel, the Ministry forbids you from using any sort of Dark Magic including that of Jinxes and Hexes?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“And you are further aware that if you disobey the Ministry’s orders during this duel I will report it to the Ministry without hesitation?”

Draco looked him in the eye. You could have heard a whisper from the opposite end of the Great Hall. The other platforms were empty; the young duel-announcers had stopped with their hands in the buckets, looking over at the fourth platform, and no-one was urging them to get on with it. “I wouldn’t ask anything else from you, Professor.”

Croaker stepped back, unreadable. “Very well then, Malfoy. Proceed.”

Travers grinned. The young announcer stepped forward, face flushed and excited. “Duelists at the ready—” Draco and Travers resumed their stances. “Begin!”

The next instant, flashes of light and bangs and spells uttered remarkably fast shot from Travers’ wand. Draco stepped back, using shielding charms, watching the spells collide against it. Travers was advanced; her spells were non-verbal.

One of the hexes burst through his shields; he couldn’t move his feet. _Confundus!_ Travers dodged; Draco freed his feet and raised another shield. Travers did the same, and they spent several uncomfortable seconds studying each other through shimmering air. Draco took a deep breath. _Glacius! Stupefy! Protego!_ Travers sent a ball of fire at his ice, reversed his _Stupefy_. Draco ducked. _Accio table!_ The table with the flyers flew into the air and spun end-over-end. Students shrieked and ducked as papers flapped through the room like gigantic snowflakes. The table exploded into splinters and shards of wood. Draco’s face stung and he tasted blood, then felt scorching heat. He flung up another shield that melted away along with the flames. _Obscuro!_ A blindfold wrapped itself around Travers’ eyes. She spun her wand in a tight circle and the blindfold flew back towards Draco in the form of a snake, mouth open, fangs glistening. _Vipera evanesca! Protego!_ Sweat mingled with the blood on his face, stiffening his skin. Something collided with his stomach. Draco slid backwards, bending double. _Carpe retractum!_ A rope of light spun from Draco’s wand and wrapped itself around Travers’ ankle. He pulled her forward, tasting acid. She screeched wordlessly and slashed the rope in two. _Protego!_ _Protego! Protego!_ Draco stepped backwards once, twice, three times as Travers advanced, hex after hex exploding in light just inches from his face. He tasted bile mixed with blood and salt and he could see her teeth glinting. She was _laughing_ at him. Anger bubbled up through his stomach. He felt it rise in his throat. And without thinking, in a furious desire to wipe that smirk off her face, Draco dropped the shield, leapt forward, and shouted for all the room to hear:

“ _Legilimens!_ ”

A small boy on the ground, a green skull in the sky, brightly colored packages, anguished wailing, a kiss with a stranger, Draco’s own face covered in blood and twisted in fury as he crouched on the ground in a deserted hallway, a slender hand covered in black goo.

Travers screamed. _Protego!_ Draco stepped back; she was pale and swaying, her mouth open. Now was his opening, now was his chance—

Dirty blond hair was just below him, to the right, and wide, silvery grey, protuberant eyes.

He lost his concentration. He lost his opening. Travers was furious. Her mouth moved without sound, but in a slow-motion sense of horror, he somehow read her lips and knew what was coming and did not know how to prepare for it. He raised a shield just as it hit him.

_Expulso._

The explosion rocked the platform. Draco spun through the air, pain rippling over his body. More screaming. His foot found a surface; his body found it a moment later. He didn’t know if he was still on the platform. Perhaps it was because of the fire and the burns, but he raised his wand and “Aqua eructo,” was the whispered spell on his blistered lips and a fountain burst through the air, followed by blue fire and it exploded into steam. Sparks floated through it like fairy-lights, and as if from a long distance Draco still heard the cries of his fellow students. He rolled over onto his stomach and aimed without seeing through the mist. _Stupefy._

Somebody let out a short, high-pitched cry. And then it was silent. Draco stayed where he was, aching and shaking. Another voice that must have belonged to Croaker, but it was low and threatening and contained incredible anger. Draco could not make out the words, but the mist evaporated. Draco raised his head and pushed himself up on his elbows. He was still on the platform. There was a wide space around it. Hundreds of pairs of eyes were staring at him. Croaker stalked to the other end of the platform where Travers lay motionless. With a wave of his wand her eyes opened and she sat up, pale and sullen. Croaker turned with a jerk, waved his wand in Draco’s direction. Draco flinched, but to his surprise he felt the blisters and blood on his face vanish.

“Draco Malfoy.” High-pitched and silky.

This was not Croaker’s voice. Draco, still on his stomach, turned his head with dread in the pit of his stomach. And there, in front of the crowd, with a maddening, sickening, sympathetic _I’ve-got-you-now_ smile on his face, was Arnold Peasegood.

*

_What do I do?_

“Come along now, Mr. Malfoy.” Peasegood gripped the end of the sleeve of his right arm, pulling him through the courtyard. The double-doors of the Great Hall clanged behind them. No one had defended him. No one would. Draco followed Peasegood in a daze, without argument. He had no plan, he had no words, no way to slither out of this.

_What do I do?_

“My trunk,” he said, and his voice sounded strangely cold and unafraid.

“It will be brought to you,” said Peasegood vaguely. After it was searched, no doubt. Ah, well, experimental potions couldn’t be much worse than being persecuted for the duel, could it?

_What do I do?_

_My parents,_ he wanted to say. _What are you going to tell them? Are you going to tell them?_

_Merlin, please don’t tell them._

But he could not speak, and he didn’t trust Peasegood to do anything for his sake so it was probably for the best. The two of them traveled down to Hogsmeade. Draco felt only distant, mild confusion when they went into the Hogs Head and Peasegood heartily greeted Rosmerta, who looked at Peasegood with pinched lips and at Draco with fearless curiosity. Peasegood clamped his cold, clammy fingers around Draco’s wrist and they stepped into Rosmerta’s fireplace. Draco wondered only briefly if the Ministry frequently used private fireplaces for transportation, or if it was a new policy. He wondered if Rosmerta had given her permission and if she got paid for her trouble.

Then they stepped out into a bright, polished office with glistening wood and sunlight pouring through enchanted windows. Peasegood did not let go of Draco’s wrist.

“Welcome to my office,” he piped. “Have a seat."

Draco inspected the plain wooden chair in front of Peasegood's desk. It was there innocently, arms rough and unfinished. It looked very rustic compared to the glistening varnish on the cushioned chair on the opposite side of the desk. He didn't trust it. "I'd rather stand."

"Allow me to rephrase," said Peasegood. "Sit down or I will make you sit down, and there will be some rather unpleasant handcuffs involved."

Peasegood held Draco's and his own wand in one hand. _I could knock you down and take both from you and be out of here in thirty seconds flat,_ Draco thought as he stepped forward and sat down, stiffly. Only then did Peasegood release his hand. An unwelcomed memory of Lucius flitted through his mind, bringing with it a liquid hot pain.

He would have stared down Peasegood, one eyebrow arched, one corner of his mouth turned down in disapproval, the other turned upwards in amusement. **_How dare you,_** he would have said, not at all intimidated, posture relaxed, holding his walking stick up in a casual, ready-to-take-out-your-eye manner (he wouldn't have allowed Peasegood to take his wand). **_Just who do you think you are?_**

 _You overstuffed, faking, flabby turkey._ Draco flinched as a tingling feeling snaked over him. It was a mild holding spell – one to discourage attempted escape, rather than prevent it. Draco doubted Peasegood had the authority for anything stronger.

And then a younger Draco cried out, _Just wait until my Father hears about this!_

Another stab in his chest like a hot iron. Draco closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose. _Father's not here, and he mustn't find out._

But Lucius's glowering, offended face still floated before him. **_How dare you?_**

Draco opened his eyes. "If I may," his voice came out clear and calm and dripping with sarcasm and disdain. "Under what charges are you holding me here?"

Peasegood removed a thick file from a deep desk drawer with a flick of his wand and slapped it down on the desk, then flipped it open, picking through the multiple pages. He slowly withdrew a piece of thick, vanilla paper with the Ministry's logo emblazoned on top. It was a form. Peasegood placed it on top of the pages already in the file and smooth it with his hands. He then selected a quill with a magnificent peacock feather, embellished with imitation gold (Draco was a Malfoy; of course he could recognize fake jewelry by sight) and scribbled on the paper.

"Breaking the parole agreement," he said at last, his handwriting large and loopy like a gossipy old woman's. "Dueling, use of dark magic, improper use of powerful mind-penetrating magic, not informing the ministry of full magical capabilities…" Peasegood smiled down at the paper with a soft, almost passionate look of admiration in his eyes.

Draco's hatred boiled up. He no longer needed Lucius's memory prodding him. "I was not informed of these changes."

Peasegood broke his loving gaze away from the memo as he rolled it up and sealed it with his wand. "What changes?" he asked, scowling.

Draco crossed his right leg over his left and leaned back, stretching out as if lounging in the most exquisite armchair. "Nowhere in the parole agreement do the stipulations mention dueling, I did not use Dark Magic, and I am still a student – new capabilities develop every day. When I succeed at new things I am just as surprised as you."

Peasegood glowered at him, then relaxed. "Extensive examination of your wand is required, of course," he said silkily. "And the Ministry has the capability of determining what sorts of magic are excessive, Mr. Malfoy, Dark or not, new or not. That _is_ stipulated in the agreement."

This was true, but Draco's disgust was so complete that the thought was only a minor worry. He tapped his forefinger against the arm of the chair and gazed at Peasegood. Peasegood looked back.

" _Legilimens_ , Mr. Malfoy," explained Peasegood in what he probably meant to be a fatherly tone. He had no idea what Draco's father was like. "Surely you must know such a powerful, invasive use of magic is forbidden in cases such as yours. And used against an underage young woman as well. That could get an average wizard in trouble, much more so for someone of your notoriety."

Draco said nothing.

"Do you deny your successful development and use of Legilimens against an underage female?"

Draco spoke quietly. "What is this, Mr. Peasegood? Are you Hit Wizard, Detective, Wizengamot, and Judge all wrapped into one now?"

Peasegood slammed the file shut. "Suit yourself, Mr. Malfoy. We'll do this the hard way; all nice and public. I'll just go call the Daily Prophet now. Excuse me." Peasegood swept from the room.

Draco's stomach lurched with anger and anxiety. Despite Peasegood's bluster, Draco knew confessing to anything in this private office was not a wise thing to do. What worried him was the newspaper. He was tempted to leave now – which was probably what Peasegood wanted. It would be the act of a guilty man.

Draco eyed the file. Then he leaned forward, stretching out his hand. His fingers could only just brush the top of the file. He pinched the covering between this thumb and forefinger and slowly, holding his breath, dragged it towards him. At the edge of the desk it was close enough for him to pick up. He sat back and flipped it open, skipping the pages that dictated the Malfoy family crimes – he knew all too well what they were accused of and of what they were convicted. He was searching for something else. Titles and records flashed by as he skimmed the pages.

**_Involvement deeper than first suspected—_ **

**_Suspected associates—_ **

**_Interrogation transcript of—_ **

**_Names of Death Eaters—_ **

**_Narcissa Malfoy demanding investigation into treatment of infant son—_ **

**_Evidence necessary for conviction of—_ **

Wait, what? Draco went backwards.

**November 23 rd, 1981**

**_Narcissa Malfoy demanding investigation into treatment of infant son._ **

_The accused filed an official complaint on behalf of her son and her husband today. During her hearing in front of the Wizengamot, an objection was given by the jurors that she was invoking the presence of her 1-year-old son, Draco Malfoy, to gain sympathy. Draco Malfoy was in the chamber being cared for by the family house-elf, by name of Dobby. The jurors requested her son be removed. She refused to cooperate, ordering the house-elf to remain, until it was promised that Draco would be given to Lucius Malfoy, who was being kept in a separate room. Narcissa Malfoy claims that she was deceived into believing that Lucius Malfoy, once in possession of their son, would no longer be kept in the presence of Dementors. She is accusing the Ministry of abusing a child by placing him in the presence of Dementors. Immediate action recommended; possible media involvement._

Draco stared at the memo. This was not their most recent trial information. These documents were from the First Wizarding War. Draco's heart beat in his ears. He looked over the clip again and again. Dobby. He rarely thought about the house-elf. Of course he knew Dobby had been with his family his entire life—he'd never considered how Dobby might have cared for him at some point, like an ancient, dwarfish nanny. The thought seemed absurd, yet entirely logical.

Narcissa, being interrogated by the Wizengamot. Draco was incensed and in awe. They had locked his parents up with Dementors; an icy chill went down his arms. Even without an accompanying photograph, Draco could feel his mother's righteous anger wafting over him in waves from the memo. She had threatened the Ministry. He slowly turned the page. A news clipping with the headline, **_Ministry Ruling on Malfoy Involvement Stalled_** _._ The Malfoys were in the middle of severe investigations and she was _intimidating_ them, threatening them with investigations and media persecution and god knew what else. Rightly so, apparently— _Dementors_? They had locked Draco up with _Dementors_ when he was a _baby_? What kind of sadist had made that decision?

Some bloke named Gregory Tinflee, apparently. **_Wizengamot Clerk Under Investigation,_ ** said one headline. **_Tinflee on probation; re-education recommended,_** said another memo.

_Merlin's beard, she won._

**_Malfoys Awarded Compensation; Charges Dropped._ **

_"It's only right, of course," said Alecto Carrow after the announcement was made late last night. "To wrongfully accuse a good, loyal, magical family of high treason is ridiculous in itself, but to subject their young son to Dementors is horrific. It's nothing short of the cruelest kind of child abuse and a severe, disturbing overstep by the Ministry." In response to the clarification that Dementors were only kept at the doors and relatively far from the prisoners, and that the exposure had been for less than ten minutes, she responded with, "Ten minutes, ten days – any length of time spent torturing a child is too long. Only time will tell to see just how traumatized poor Draco is. The Malfoys were very gracious in agreeing to accept the compensation and not press further charges."_

Draco snorted. _That means so much coming from you, Alecto._

Why had nobody ever told him about this? Of course he knew there had been an investigation after the First War; of course he knew they had not been punished. But more than getting off scot-free, they had actually come away richer than before. He shook himself; the desire to read the entire file, slowly, was enormous. His parents never spoke of the personal aftermath of the First Wizarding War.

But no, this was history—the present was more vital. He flipped through the rest of the file rapidly, only hesitating once to stare at an old newspaper clipping with a family photo, unconsciously smiling. At last, more recent things surfaced – more memos urging the Malfoys be watched in case He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or the Death Eaters returned (Who had written all of these? Peasegood? Nobody seemed to have listened), newspaper clippings, the Dumbledore headmaster mess, an explosion of memos and charges and newspaper clippings when Lucius was found in the Department of Mysteries (Draco quickly skipped over these). Then more War news, then news about Draco and the discovery that he was also a Death Eater, trials, probation, raging letters and memos recommending Azkaban—Draco raked through the pieces more and more quickly. He did not want to relive this.

He came to the back of the file. An order for mail interception (surprise, surprise), a list of certain topics deemed suspicious, a hitlist of words to report immediately if found within letters, the tracking of deliveries to the Manor, the argument over whether they should be allowed their new house-elf or not, detailed bullet-point lists of forbidden magic (Draco thought it would have been a much more efficient use of paper to write down what the Malfoys were allowed to perform, rather than what was forbidden).

**_Death Eater and/or Sympathizers Conspiracy and/or Threat and/or Potential Targets and/or Potential Targeting._ **

What?

_Bulstrode. Carrow. Carrow. Rookwood. Avery Jr. Crouch. Crabbe Sr. Goyle Sr. Jugson. Mulciber Jr. Nott. LeStrange. Rowle. Yaxley. Malfoy._

Their name was highlighted.

 **_Targets/(_ ** _potential targeting) **:** Bulstrode, Carrow._

 **_Possible Conspirators:_ ** _Greengrass. Malfoy. Travers._

 **_Potential Instigators_ ** **:** _Malfoy. Travers. Greengrass._

What the hell was this?

Footsteps. Draco jumped. He heaved the enormous file closed and slid it, upside down, back across Peasegood's desk, and sat still with his hands folded in front of him. The door opened. Peasegood, face flushed pink, went back behind his desk. Draco struggled to hide his confusion. His collar, damp with sweat, stuck to the back of his neck and he agonized simultaneously over the time he'd wasted in the earlier parts of the file and the way that the file sat crooked and guiltily on the desk. Peasegood, face flushed pink, swept up the file and dropped it back into the deep desk drawer, which he then locked. He fell into his chair, got out more papers, and sat reading them as if Draco weren't there.

Draco's heart slowed and the sweat on his neck slowly dried. The only sound came from Peasegood's fingernail drumming on the desk or taping against the papers of the files. Draco sat still as he faced forward, staring into space and poring over those potentially-fatal lines in the file. _Conspirators. Targets. Instigators._ What was Peasegood investigating?

At last, a tapping came at the door and a memo flew into the room and settled in front of Peasegood. He snatched it up and tore it open. His gaze flickered across the page, and a smug smile of excitement twitched on his face. He jumped up and came back around the desk, tapping his wand against Draco's chair. The charm fell away. "Come on then, Mr. Malfoy."

_This can't be good._

Draco obediently followed Peasegood from the room and did not allow himself to glance over his shoulder at the drawer where the file sat, locked out of sight. "Where are we going?" he demanded, not at all expecting an answer.

"To see Savage," said Peasegood, with a glance at him to gauge his reaction. Draco looked straight ahead and set his jaw as panic flared in his chest. Savage was the Head Auror.

They arrived at his office minutes later. Peasegood knocked and the door swung open on silent hinges. Savage's name was emblazoned in gold on the desk's nameplate. His dark, slicked-back hair held streaks of grey that somehow matched the sharp cut of his jaw the piercing look in his eyes. Draco thought that if Savage looked at him with those eyes he might be cut in two.

"Come on in, Arnold," said Savage waving a hand as he pushed a quill and pad to the side. Moving photographs of Death Eaters screamed on the walls. Peasegood pushed him down onto a wooden bench against the wall and Draco gazed at the nameplate, watching out of the corner of his eyes as Peasegood handed Savage the memo. "Are these the results?" asked Savage as he took the paper. "You had better have something this time, Arnold."

What followed were the third-longest twenty seconds of Draco's life (the longest two twenty-second periods had taken place in the past few years. He preferred not to think about them).

Even without looking at him, Draco sensed when Savage looked up from the paper. "Do you have witnesses?"

"Of course I do, Mr. Savage," said Peasegood, sounding offended. "It's all in my incident report—it took place in the middle of the Great Hall. Hundreds of students saw it."

Savage did not sigh, but you could almost hear one in the short silence before he said, "Do you have witness _testimony_ , Arnold."

"Lindon's working on it now, sir."

Another short pause. "Mr. Malfoy." The voice commanded, 'look at me.' Draco looked up and the intense gaze nearly did split him in two. "Mr. Peasegood has submitted some serious accusations against you. Has he informed you what they are?"

Draco pictured his father's face and answered in a steady voice, "He has, sir."

"This," Savage placed the paper on the desk in front of him and pressed his fingertips against it, its bottom edge lined up perfectly with the edge of the desk. "Is the result of the wand-check performed by our analysts. It shows that it was used to cast a Legilimens spell. Do you deny that you cast it?"

Draco resisted the urge to lick his lips. He thought quickly about his answer. He chose his words carefully. "I did attempt to cast Legilimens, sir, yes."

Savage, too, took his time studying Draco before presenting his next question. He steepled his fingers and leaned forward, pressing the tips against his lips. "Why did you not inform the Ministry you knew that particular piece of magic?"

"I had never attempted it before," Draco lied. They probably hadn't found the one from the alleyway; it was too long ago.

Another contemplative pause. "Did you successfully cast it?"

 _Yes._ "I'm not sure. I don't know what a successful attempt is."

"Any sensations you can remember? Images, feelings?"

Draco closed his eyes as if to remember. He opened them after a pregnant silence. "I was Dueling, sir. There was a lot of commotion."

"Ah, yes." Savage leant back in his chair, but he never took his gaze from Draco's face. "Dueling. May I ask why?"

"I understood that it was not forbidden," said Draco. "I crave your pardon if I was mistaken."

"You are not mistaken," said Savage. "But surely you recognize that a ban on Dueling is implied when you have a ban on utilizing Dark Magic?"

Draco took a deep breath. "I…recognize that Dueling without Dark Magic is unorthodox."

Savage's face was maddeningly blank. Draco got the sudden sensation that Savage was looking straight through him, at the wall behind—or into his soul (one of the two). "Why did you select that particular piece of magic?"

"I was Dueling, sir. There was a lot of commotion."

"Why were you Dueling at all?"

Draco opened his mouth to protest; this wasn't relevant, it wasn't forbidden, so Savage had no right to ask. But something in Savage's face stopped him. Draco licked his lips and closed his mouth again.

"I'll rephrase," said Savage. "Why did you challenge Vanessa Travers?"

"She wanted me too."

"Is that why you challenged her?"

Draco suddenly felt confused. What did Savage want from him? "I…"

"I hope you understand what deep trouble you could be in, Mr. Malfoy, attempting to use an extremely invasive piece of magic on an underage witch. You are eighteen, correct?" Draco nodded. "Ms. Travers is fifteen. You tried to peer into her mind. Do you understand how wrong that is considered to be? Dueling or not, technically permissible or not. You could be charged—Peasegood, here, is attempting to charge you—with an Assault that is akin to rape."

An icy chill stole over Draco, nipping his fingers and toes. The skin of his face cooled as the blood drained away. "Is—I—" he croaked.

"You were not aware that Legilimens had that sort of connotation," said Savage. Draco couldn't think, couldn't answer. All pre-made replies and haughty remarks dissolved in his icy, salty blood that shivered in his core. Without realizing he had done it, Draco slouched forward, arms crossed and held tight against his chest, staring at the ground. "It didn't use to, but he law had been modified. Influenced, I'm sure, by the atrocious crimes committed with Legilimens by Tom Riddle."

The sensation of something slithering over his arm. Draco shuddered. A tiny, shaking piece of his mind whispered a question. He looked up and repeated it, "Why are you explaining this to me?" For the first time, Savage's gaze (still fixed on his face), showed an emotion. His eyebrows lifted. Draco's mouth kept speaking even as most of his mind remained disconnected. "Peasegood just wants to charge me. You aren't obligated to tell me anything other than the bare facts. Why are you explaining things to me?"

"I don't just want to charge you, Mr. Malfoy," said Savage, still looking a little surprised. No, not surprised – there was a spark of respect there. No, that was crazy. Why would Savage respect any part of him? "I want the truth, and I want to fry the correct fish. Can you answer the question now? Why did you challenge Vanessa Travers?"

Draco was 100% certain he had not been dosed with veritaserum, but he may as well have been. Where on Earth had Savage been hiding the entire war? He ought to have been in charge at the Auror's office all along, not that clown Scrimgeour. "Um," he said. He sat back up and rubbed his temples. "We're rivals," he said at last, quietly. "I didn't think about her being an underage female, just as a talented fellow student in my house that I wanted to best."

"I see." Savage's gaze finally broke away from Draco's face. He dipped his quill in an inkwell and wrote something on the paper in front of him.

Peasegood, who had been quiet and still this entire time, suddenly burst out, "Now, wait a moment, please, Mr. Savage—"

"Quiet, Arnold, and let me finish this," said Savage calmly. Draco's heart began to pound, flooding hot blood through his limbs and burning his numbed fingers. _What's happening? Is he letting me go?_  

"But Mr. Savage—"

"I'm not going to let you spin this, Arnold, even if your spin is correct. If the Travers girl confirms that his attempt was unsuccessful, we likely should not keep him."

And just as quickly, his hot hope turned cold again. _Travers._ Travers would turn him in. He was not getting out of this. His attempt had been successful, he knew it. She had screamed. She knew it too. Draco was so caught up in his whirlwind of despair he almost missed Peasegood's continued outburst.

"But Savage, it's the Malfoys— _again._ Surely you recognize this same pattern keeps cropping up. And if you continue to sit there, something _terrible_ is going to happen. First rumors, then flyers, then Azkaban itself, now visible disruptions—"

Draco looked up at the same time that Savage said, sharply, warning, " _Arnold._ " Peasegood's gaze snapped to Draco, his eyes wild and his face flushed. He stopped speaking. Draco's heart continued to increase. _Flyers? Azkaban? What disruptions?_

"Arnold," said Savage, and his voice had become dangerous. "I hope I don't need to remind you the last time the Ministry took advantage of its power to focus its strengths on certain individuals. Does the phrase _Wrongful accusations against Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore_ ring a bell?"

"Sir," said Peasegood in a calmer, tighter voice. "These are _Death Eaters._ "

"Yes, indeed," said Savage. "I haven't forgotten. And your _Death Eaters_ are exactly the reason I have bigger fish to fry than Draco Malfoy." He turned back to Draco. "Here is what I suspect is going to happen, if Vanessa Travers confirms your story," he said, as he got out a fresh sheet of paper and rapidly filled it out. "Your case and my recommendation will be submitted for approval. You voluntarily Dueled an underage witch. She voluntarily agreed to the Duel. You used unorthodox methods that put your fellow students in mild danger. You attempted to use severe, invasive methods on the underage witch, but you claim that it was simply in the heat of the Duel. You have had no previous successful attempts at Legilimens, so the ability cannot be logged with the Ministry. I recommend that the attempt be added to your case file for potential evidence for or against you in potential future incidents. I further recommend that the Ministry add a stipulation against Dueling using any form of magic to your parole agreement and any further attempts at Legilimency. I further recommend that you be released immediately with a warning." Savage stopped writing and looked up. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," said Draco without any enthusiasm in his voice. It wouldn't work. Travers was going to turn him in.

"I want to ensure you understand," said Savage. _Why?_ Wondered Draco. _Why do you care?_ "While no action will be taken against you, if you are ever brought in here again with similar or related charges, this incident will most likely be used against you to show your history and act as evidence of your violent and callous tendencies."

Draco felt a flash of anger, but he merely said, "Yes, sir." He was mentally planning how to ask Savage to allow him to break the news to his parents, and if Savage granted him the privilege, how in Merlin's name he was going to break the news to his parents. And at the same time, he was wondering how to not completely break down and panic.

"I hope you further understand how you are dangerously flirting with the very thin line that could lead to your wand being broken, or worse." 

Draco didn't answer. He looked at the ground again.

At that moment, another memo flew through the slot in the door. It settled itself in front of Savage. He opened it, spent a few moments reading, added a note to the paper, stamped it, and handed the paper to Peasegood. Peasegood seemed to understand and left without saying anything. Draco watched Peasegood leave, then looked back at Savage, feeling very hollow. Savage nodded at him.

_I'm dead._

"Vanessa Travers has confirmed that your attempt to use Legilimens against her was unsuccessful. I've ordered your trunk to be returned to you. As soon as the committee officially approves, you will be free to go."


	7. Chapter 7

A ministry official with a very large chin returned Draco's trunk and wand a little while later as they both stood in a back room, and handed him a letter. "This arrived for you an hour ago."

Draco took the letter. "The seal is broken," he said in mock surprise as he opened it and scanned the contents.

"It was deemed necessary, under the circumstances," said the official. "What exactly is it Mrs. Malfoy is requesting that you pick up from St. Mungo's?"

Draco, very confused, just replied, "She doesn't say." And she didn't; the single line of text read, _Draco darling, if it isn't too much trouble, please stop by St. Mungo's on your way home. They have a package for us._

"We can see that," growled the official, his chin jutting out. "Are you telling me you don't know?"

Draco folded up the letter and flicked his wand at his trunk, levitating it. "My mother doesn't regale me with the intimate details of the running of our household, as you all must know by the contents of all our other letters."

"Surely you must have some idea?"

Draco fixed a blank gaze on the official—intentionally blank, because it was only by looking blank that he could prevent himself from glaring. "Perhaps it's an anti-allergen potion," he said tightly.

"Anti-allergen? To what?"

Draco lied seamlessly. "Evergreen. I'm allergic to evergreen trees. Doesn't matter most of the year, but Christmastime is a bother."

The official looked very suspicious. "Why doesn't she send the house-elf?"

"No idea," said Draco, and this was actually true. "But it's a large house and we've only one house-elf. Perhaps she's busy. Now, if you'll excuse me?"

The official nodded, and Draco exited the room. He handed a pass to the front desk and left via one of the many fireplaces, appearing in the St. Mungo's waiting area in a spray of green sparks and ash. He would have preferred to arrive more inconspicuously, but walking down the streets with his floating trunk wouldn't have been inconspicuous either. He picked up the package without trouble.  He nearly got out of the building without any bother whatsoever, but as he approached the exit (uncorking the potion bottle and sniffing it to guess its contents) another person came through and nearly ran into him.

"Wha—Lovegood!" Draco spluttered, slamming the cork back into the bottle.

"Draco!" Luna jumped backwards, her eyes even wider than normal.

"What are you doing here?" Draco demanded. The sharp smell of what he knew now to be a calming draught stung his nostrils. "Were you following me?"

"No, of course not!" Luna blinked at him. Her voice held no traces of the startle in her face. "Did you think I was at the Ministry?" Oh, of course, his question was idiotic. "Besides, I could ask you the same – did you have an injury left over from the duel?"

"No," said Draco. Best to stick to his story about anti-allergens. "What about you?"

"I wasn't injured in the duel."

"No, I meant—why are you here?"

"I know what you meant."  Luna continued blinking at him with those enormous eyes.

"So…" Draco prodded, while internally he wondered, _Why am I still bothering to talk to her?_ And simultaneously, _Why isn't she ignoring me and leaving?_

"I'd rather not tell you why I'm here," said Luna. "As, I presume, you don't want to tell me, since you didn't really answer my question either."

Draco shifted his weight back and forth and fiddled with his packages. "What happened to my Silent Treatment?"

Luna just blinked again. Then, "Did you give your ring to Jamie Greengrass?"

Draco flinched and glanced at the other patrons of the hospital; no one seemed to be paying them any attention.

"I guess so," Luna mused. "Why?"

Draco avoided the question. "How'd you know it was mine?"

"I'd noticed you wearing it before," said Luna. "And he's been waving it around proudly ever since he got it. I thought they were the same." A feather loosened in her hair and swept across her face as it fell. She glanced up and readjusted it. "So the Ministry let you go, then?"

"Yes," said Draco.

"That was quite impressive, what you did. Impressive, and scary for some people. How long have you been a Legilimens?"

"I'm not," Draco lied. "I wasn't successful."

"Really?" Luna finished with her feather and stared at him, expressionless.

"They asked Travers, and she confirmed it," said Draco. "So you know I'm not. There's no reason for her to help me get out of there if I had been successful."

"Not necessarily," said Luna, glancing over her shoulder.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, she's very proud. Even if you had successfully used Legilimens on her, I don't think she would want to admit that you had been in her head." Luna turned. "I have an appointment and I must go – I'll see you next term, Draco."

Draco stared after her, perplexed. What in Merlin's name went on inside that girl's head? Only after she disappeared into the interior of the hospital did he realize how hard his heart was pounding and how tense his shoulders were. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. For whatever reason, Luna Lovegood was speaking to him again. And she knew that he was a Legilimens…of a sort, anyway.

Draco shook himself put the calming draught under his arm. He was going to be late getting home as it was; he couldn't keep his parents waiting any longer.

*

"Draco, _darling._ " Narcissa flung open the doors of the manor herself and hugged Draco tight; caught off guard, Draco dropped his trunk and it fell to the ground with a thunderous _boom_.

"Hello," Draco grinned in spite of himself, breathing in his mother's perfume and only slightly disconcerted by the ominous gloominess of the manor.

Narcissa released him and held his shoulders at arm's length, looking him up and down. "It's so good to see you – but you're late, are you all right? What happened?"

Draco was prepared with a string of lies. "Nothing, I just wasn't sure who to see in picking this up, and of course the staff weren't helpful, and they made me sign some papers."

Narcissa took the package with a frown. "Oh, dear…it's supposed to be under the strictest confidentiality."

"That's probably why they made me sign the papers," suggested Draco quickly, levitating his trunk again. "What is it, anyway? A calming draught?"

"Yes – well, it's a new one we're trying. Here, darling, let the house-elf get that – Nippy!" Nippy appeared in a crinkled, slightly yellow-stained white tea-towel. Narcissa gestured at Draco's trunk. "Take Master Malfoy's things to his room." Draco blinked; he wasn't used to hearing his mother refer to him as 'Malfoy.'

"Yes, Mistress Malfoy!" Nippy eyed Draco with caution as she skirted behind him and disappeared with his trunk. Draco couldn't remember if he'd ever even spoken to the house-elf.

"Calming draught?" Draco asked as he took Narcissa's hand and they started down the hall. "I thought we were using sleeping aids."

"We are still, but we've started with calming draughts." Narcissa squeezed his hand and Draco decided not to ask why, specifically, Lucius needed calming draughts. "I'm sorry to give you the task of picking it up. Nippy can be – indiscreet." She grimaced. "I'm not sure if it's with malicious intent or if she's just a bit of an imbecile. It's best if we keep her inside the house except for the most menial errands."

Great. Just what they needed. Draco sighed, wondering if he could scare the house-elf into keeping quiet about family matters. He changed the subject. "Is father in the study?"

"Yes." She squeezed his hand again.

_Huge surprise, there._

As they reached the study door, Draco squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and prepared to lie through his teeth.

But Lucius looked surprisingly…well. Slightly less thin perhaps, and certainly less haggard. He stood the moment they entered, strode forward, and shook Draco's hand. But then, still gripping Draco's hand, he pulled him into a hug.

Another surprise. Draco wasn't sure he liked them.

It was short lived; Lucius released him almost immediately and beamed at him. Draco smiled back. "Hello, Father."

They plied Draco with questions about Hogwarts, which he found surprisingly comfortable to answer. He sat across from them as they held each other's hands and drank in every word he said. Draco wasn't sure how he felt about this either.

It had become astonishingly easy to lie to his parents.

He'd always lied to everybody else. Not to his parents.

_Is there anyone anymore I don't have to lie to?_

He tried to ask them questions, and their smiles became tenser. Lucius kept looking at Narcissa, and she answered them all. Silent pauses came in-between the answers. At first Draco thought it was just the embarrassment of not having much to talk about anymore – they were hiding away, trying to recover, living off their savings and they simply didn't have much to tell him. Before, Lucius would do most of the talking. He would tell the most incredible stories of intrigue and politics and he loved to savor the praises of Draco and Narcissa. And to Draco – his father was a god. His father was the most powerful man in Great Britain – if not the world. It didn't matter that there was a "minister" – not when the minister did as his father commanded.

But it kept happening. Draco asked about the goings-on of the house, of the outside, of whether the Ministry was leaving them alone. And Lucius looked at Narcissa, and Narcissa glanced back at him, and then they both looked at Draco and Narcissa said vaguely, "There's nothing happening that you haven't heard about in school. It's calm. We live our lives, the others live theirs. We hear from the Greengrasses occasionally. The Ministry sends us letters reminding us of what we can and cannot do. The usual, darling."

Draco smiled weakly as his mind began to reel. _They're lying to me too. They're hiding something._

And then he couldn't help it – he didn't want to think it, but he did. Peasegood's file.

**_Death Eater and/or Sympathizers Conspiracy and/or Threat and/or Potential Targets and/or Potential Targeting._ **

His brief moment of feeling close to his parents dissolved. They were talking face-to-face, but it felt just like reading letters aloud while the ministry breathed down their necks.

*

Immediately after dinner Draco pleaded exhaustion, escaped to his room, closed the door, cast Muffliato, put his hands in his hair and screamed. Then, with frustrated, hurt, grunting cries he kicked his wardrobe, and kicked it again, and again, and again until a sharp pain went up his ankle. He staggered backwards, fell onto his bed, and put his face in his hands.

Several seconds passed in silence.

"Eh…perhaps…Young Master Malfoy would like Nippy to come back later?"

Somehow, her voice didn't startle him. Draco lifted his head and let his hands fall to dangle in between his knees. "What are you doing in here?"

The house-elf bowed (or cowered?) and took several steps backwards. "Nippy was only unpacking Young Master Malfoy's trunk for him. Nippy's old mistress always requested Nippy do it immediately, but Nippy didn't have time before dinner, so Nippy was only—"

"Never mind," Draco rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry I asked."

Nippy looked back up, her eyes wide. "Why would Young Master Malfoy apologize?"

"What? I'm not apologizing, I'm – never mind. Just get out." Nippy bobbed something that looked ridiculously like a curtsy and scampered across the room. "Wait," Draco added. Nippy turned back around. "Keep this…interaction to yourself, all right?"

Nippy shifted her weight. "Nippy will try, but Master or Mistress Malfoy ask – "

"I know, I know, you answer to them first, not me. I just mean don't bring it up."

"Yes, Young Master Malfoy," said Nippy and she fled from the room. Draco then searched for his belongings. The house-elf had arranged them neatly in his wardrobe and on his bookshelves, and she had lined up his potion bottles neatly on his bedside table. Draco took a miniscule sip  from one and then hid them under the same floorboard where he used to hide his ring.

*

Draco woke to red light streaming through his window and spilling across his bed; the thick curtains were drawn. Draco wondered if Nippy had done this, or if they hadn't been closed the night before. He sat up. He'd slept without undressing and lying on top of the bedcoverings. He slipped out of bed and went to the window. The sun was only just rising. He turned and looked at the sunlight across his bed. Something about that light illuminating a place where he had hidden every evening in fear – even when he knew hiding wasn't any good, because at any moment his arm might burn and _He_ would be calling –

Draco shook himself. Something about that light made the frustration of last night evaporate, replaced with a cold, hard, determination.

"Nippy!"

The house-elf appeared with a crack, wearing a slightly less rumpled white tea-towel that was frayed at the edges. "Yes, Young Master Malfoy?"

"Are my parents up yet?"

"No, Young Master Malfoy."

"What time is it?"

"About five-thirty, Young Master Malfoy. Would Young Master Malfoy like Nippy to bring him some breakfast?"

"Not right now." Draco sat down on a chair next to the window. "I have some questions for you."

Nippy clasped her hands in front of her and fidgeted.

"Have my parents been going out visiting?"

Nippy cocked her head. "No, Young Master Malfoy."

"Do they go out for other reasons?"

"Yes."

Draco's stomach sank. "What reasons?"

Nippy looked uncomfortable. She glanced sideways. "Sometimes Mistress Malfoy goes to St. Mungo's. Once she…went to the Ministry of Magic."

Draco leaned forward unconsciously. "Why?"

"Nippy isn't sure."

"Why do you think?"

"Perhaps to sign papers? Perhaps to talk to the other wizards?"

Draco sucked in his breath. "What other wizards?"

Nippy's weight shifted back and forth. "…Ministry wizards?"

Maybe she didn't mean specific wizards, just wizards that were not her masters. It was so hard to tell with house-elves. "All right. What about visitors? Does anybody ever come here?"

Nippy's wide eyes got even wider. She stared at him for several seconds before saying in a high voice, "No, Young Master Malfoy."

She was lying. Draco couldn't believe it. How could a house-elf dare lie to him? "Anybody at all? Ever?"

Nippy danced back and forth on her feet as if they were being prod with hot nails. "No, Young Master Malfoy."

Draco sighed. "Did my parents tell you to lie to me if I asked you?"

Nippy stopped dancing. She looked relieved. "Yes, Young Master Malfoy."

This must be part of what Narcissa met by Nippy being "indiscreet." You could read the house-elf more easily than Draco used to be able to read Vince and Greg (not that there had ever been much to read in Crabbe and Goyle). Draco rubbed his forehead. There wasn't much else he could get out of Nippy if Narcissa had forbidden her from telling him anything. "Okay then. Never mind."

"Would Young Master Malfoy like breakfast now?"

"Sure."

Draco followed Nippy downstairs. He tried not to look at the walls – or the floors – or any part of the house. But it followed him, and the shadows lurked in the corners, and they whispered to his mark and his mark whispered back. Draco squeezed his eyes shut tight for a moment before sitting down. As Nippy brought in the breakfast things, Draco forced himself to look around the dining room. Then something struck him.

"This is a different table." He said it to himself, but Nippy answered.

"Yes, Young Master Malfoy."

Draco suddenly felt less heavy. He took a bite of toast and spoke around it. "All right. Listen. I've got some jobs for you. If my mother doesn't object too much, I want you to go around opening all the curtains and turning on the lights. It's too dark in here. And if she doesn't object but she closes them again, keep opening them back up."

Nippy trembled. "Yes, Young Master Malfoy."

"And I want you to…" Draco hesitated. He only had so much money for his personal use. He looked around the room and his gaze landed on the house-elf's feet that shuffled as she cowered. "Stand up straight, would you? And why don't you wear something decent?"

Nippy stood up straight and looked down, tugging on her tea-towel. "House-elves take the least-best for themselves – it's only right."

"Then we've got to have better," Draco decided. "Throw out those things, buy something new."

Nippy stopped trembling. She stood as still as something that had been petrified. "New, Young Master Malfoy?" she whispered. "But…house-elves haven't money."

"I know that," Draco grumbled. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a galleon. He tossed it at the elf. It soared above her head. She jumped up and caught it between her hands. "Use that."

Nippy stared down at her hands as they cupped the money. The gold circle reflected in her eyes. Enraptured, she said, "What would Young Master Malfoy like Nippy to get?"

Draco helped himself to the jam, beginning to get annoyed with the house-elf's timidity. "I don't know, and I don't care. Just get something suitable for a great wizarding family, and get enough of them that you wear something suitable for a servant of a great wizarding family."

"Would…" Nippy's head remained bent towards the gold, but her gaze lifted. "it's just that...Nippy's old Mistress always had…would Young Master Malfoy mind if Nippy got towels with…with flowers on them?"

"For the love of—" Draco snapped, and then stopped himself as Nippy shrank back. He took a deep breath…and then had an idea. "If you stop skulking about like the shadows are going to jump out and eat you, you can get whatever you like as long's as it's tasteful." Nippy's mouth dropped open and she clutched the galleon to her chest. " _If,_ " Draco emphasized. "you stop acting afraid of your own reflection. We need a confident, humble, and obedient servant – not a skittish one that embarrasses her family. Got it?"

"Nippy may get…whatever Nippy likes?" the house-elf repeated in a whisper. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them with a splash of liquid.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh for _god's_ sake, if you're going to do that, get out of here."

Nippy's back straightened and she stood as if to salute him. The tears bubbled over, but she cried out in a wet voice, "Young Master Malfoy is very generous!" then she bowed low and ran from the room with the muffled, squeaky sobs. Draco wondered if he'd made a mistake. He wanted desperately to have a house-elf that didn't reflect the general atmosphere of the house – but he didn't want one constantly crying or pawing at him either.

So it was with some apprehension that later in the afternoon up in his bedroom, he called the house-elf to him again. Nippy appeared immediately, her back ram-rod straight, her arms stiff at her sides. Then she bent one arm at her waist and bowed low.

"Good afternoon, Young Master Malfoy, what would you like Nippy to do?"

Draco blinked at her. She was wearing the fluffiest tea-towel he'd ever seen in his life. It was adorned with sunflowers. "You got your shopping done quick."

"It is the mark of a good house-elf to do whatever her masters wish immediately," said Nippy. "And if Young Master Malfoy will permit Nippy to continue to speak, Nippy would like to thank Young Master Malfoy for his generosity. Nippy is used to direct, exact orders. Nippy is not used to being granted discretion."

"Uh," said Draco. "Right. Whatever. Look, when you and my mother were going through the attics and rearranging furniture and stuff, I wonder if you came across a wand."

Nippy looked him in the eyes. She tilted her head and looked quizzical. "A wand, Young Master Malfoy?"

"Or perhaps a wand box? Or any old school-things?"

"Once, Mistress Malfoy stopped to look at some old robes. They had the insignia of Slytherin house from Hogwarts on them."

Draco bit his thumb. "Do you remember where they were? Were they moved?"

Nippy nodded. "Nippy remembers everything, Young Master Malfoy. She has to, because her old Mistress forgot everything. No, they were not moved."

"Go look through those things again. The wand I'm looking for is made of black walnut."

"At once, Young Master Malfoy." Nippy bowed again and ran from the room. Draco stared after her, and wondered if this change was permanent.

He then got on his knees and pulled out his trunk from under the bed. Inside it was the result of some hunting though the house he'd done on his own – a long black, semi-hollow rod, and the silver head of a serpent with emerald eyes.

Nippy returned forty-five minutes later. "Is this what Young Master Malfoy wanted?" she inquired, holding up a beautiful, albeit dusty, long wand of black walnut.

Draco took it and glanced it over. There was an elegant peacock engraved on the handle. "That's it. Polish it, would you?" he handed it back to her. The house-elf immediately produced from somewhere a clean rag and she immediately began to rub the old wand free from dust.

"If you please, Young Master Malfoy…" Nippy began. "Nippy is only curious…"

"When I said I wanted you to be more confident, I didn't mean more impertinent," Draco grumbled.

Nippy bowed her head lower. "Nippy is sorry."

Draco sighed. "What is it?"

"Nippy only wondered…why was this wand in the attic?"

Draco sat on the bed and looked at the debris he had taken from his trunk. "It was my father's first wand. He used it while he was in school."

"Oh." Nippy rubbed harder at the wand.

"What?"

"It's too impertinent to ask," said Nippy, shrinking back.

"Shoulders," said Draco. Nippy immediately straightened, though she kept her head down as she worked. Draco thought he knew what the house-elf was going to ask: _if this is his old school wand, why doesn't he use it now?_ After all, his father's antique one had been destroyed by Potter's. The answer (which he would never breathe to anybody) was that it no longer worked for him. Black walnut hated lies – especially lies to oneself. And he had refused to trade wands with Narcissa. But even if it no longer worked for him, it was still a wand and it was better than the humiliation of having no wand. Especially if the user wouldn't actually ever need to _use_ it. "What time is it?" he asked abruptly.

"Half past two," answered the house-elf, looking up at him. She watched him as he put the debris on his bed away in his bag. "Is Young Master Malfoy going somewhere?"

"Yes," said Draco shortly and without explanation. "I'll give you a note to give to Mother. I should be back in time for dinner."

Nippy looked from her hands to Draco's bag, then back to her hands, then back again. “Young Master Malfoy is repairing the wand for Senior Master Malfoy?”

Draco looked at the elf sharply. She looked back, clutching the old wand. Merlin's beard, she was smarter than he'd thought. “Yeah,” Draco admitted, leaning over the desk as he scribbled a note to Narcissa. "For Christmas. Don't tell anyone."

“Young Master Malfoy is gifting Senior Master Malfoy with a present to help Senior Master Malfoy not feel so sad?”

“That’s right,” said Draco shortly, having half a mind to tell her to shut up. But the house-elf said nothing more. He glanced down at her, and jumped in surprise as her large eyes filled with gigantic tears.

“Young Master Malfoy is very kind,” she cried, hopping up and down as if unable to contain herself.

Draco felt a jolt of a very strong emotion that so startled him he thought it couldn’t be real. “Not really,” he said, extremely uncomfortable, watching her brimming eyes and wondering if they would spill over. He had definitely _not_ felt a surge of intense affection for the house-elf. “They’re my parents.”

“Young Master Malfoy cares very much for his family!” wailed Nippy. “Those other wizards, the ones in the uniforms and matching voices and hard robes—”

Draco stared at her, at a loss. “Matching robes and hard voices?”

Nippy went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “They tried very hard to keep Nippy away, made up lies about Nippy’s old mistress, saying she wished to change her will but she didn’t make any wishes at all, they just made it up, and Nippy’s poor mistress died without saying anything—”

“I know,” said Draco bitterly. “I was there, remember?” It had been a long meeting with Wizengamot officials arguing over whether Draco’s old great-aunt thrice-removed would have _really_ wanted the Malfoys to inherit her small stock of savings and Nippy, after all, they were disowned by most of the world, and his aunt was so senile, deaf, and mute that she couldn’t be expected to make clear her intentions—

“Nippy is happy they lost!” cried the house-elf, her wrinkled face now splotchy and pink with emotion. “They lied and said the Malfoys were a bad, evil family – but Young Master Malfoy is very kind and takes care of his family. Nippy is happy to serve the Malfoys!”

“Er, right,” said Draco, feeling twinges of—he disregarded the feeling again as misplaced. He definitely wasn’t feeling _guilt_ as he wondered whether Nippy’s feelings would be the same should she ever find out exactly how the house-elves the Malfoys had kept during their glory days had been treated when they'd had house-elves to spare. “Look, why don’t you go clean the kitchen or something? I’ll take that.”

Nippy handed him the old wand almost reverently, then bowed as she noisily blew her nose on the polishing rag and ran from the room, still wailing in joy. Draco shook his head as he added the wand to his bag. He fingered the contents for a moment, remembering with bitter reluctance the time his father had been in control. The time Draco's life had been in control. When all of Draco's worries were second-hand and he hadn't had to carry the problems of his parents himself.

And he remembered the day he'd learned that Lucius would never be in control again.

*

_Sixth year._

_Draco could not think. He wouldn’t permit himself to think._

**_Home._ ** _He just had to get home. Walk through the forest, numb, firelight raging behind him, greenlight flashing inside him._

**_Flash. Crack. Fall. Life. Death. Dead._ **

_He had just seen someone murdered. He had just seen **Dumbledore** murdered. He’d complained about Hogwarts, about the Headmaster. He’d said multiple times the world would be better off without him. He’d even thought to himself that he wanted Dumbledore dead._

_Thinking was so different than seeing._

_Facing him, alone, up in the cold and the night and the gentle kindness, the hope sputtering and reviving. So close—_

_Draco would not permit himself to think._

**_Just get home._ **

_Walk. One step at a time. Faster. Stumbling. Catching. Brushing aside branches. Bellatrix laughing. Wind in his eyes. Someone grabbing his arm. Disapparation._

_Malfoy manor. Familiar stones beneath his shoes. Relief and exhaustion. The moon overhead. Whispering, scurrying footsteps. Draco heard a rough gasp and realized it was from himself. Cold on his face, in two streaks running from his eyes to his jawline. Hair in his eyes._

_“Draco.”_

_Draco turned. Severus’s hand was on his wrist, hard and painful. Severus lifted his arm, brushed his sleeve hard across Draco’s face. It stung. The sharp streaks of cold disappeared._

_A harsh whispered instruction. “Get inside.”_

**_Home._ **

_Bellatrix had already disappeared inside through the front door. But something was wrong. Severus’s whisper held a warning. Draco stepped over the threshold. He was pushed along the hall by unseen people, shoved into the high-ceilinged sitting room where a fire raged._

_A deep, gut-wrenching pain and despair and warmth and **death**. _

_“So you have returned,” the soft voice of Death said._

_“Yes, my Lord, we’ve done it! We’ve done it!” Bellatrix’s shrill whisper carried insanity and joy and victory as she leapt in circles around him._

_“Malfoy.”_

_Draco raised his eyes, a black curtain falling over his sight and sinking its talons into his soul and weighing him down, down, down—_

_“My Lord,” he said._

_“Dumbledore is dead?”_

_“Yes my Lord.”_

_“And you killed him?”_

_Bellatrix’s dance stilled._

_“No, my Lord,” said Draco, and he didn’t even feel fear. **Just kill me.**_

_The Dark Lord said nothing, running his fingers over his wand._

**_Please just kill me._ **

_“My Lord,” Severus stepped forward. “If I may.” The Dark Lord extended a hand. “I was, perhaps, over-eager. Upon the others’ arrival at Hogwarts, Draco had disarmed and cornered Dumbledore. His wand was up and ready. But I – interfered. I, perhaps, desired too strongly to enact my revenge for the tedious years I spent paying false homage.”_

_The Dark Lord’s mouth curved upwards. “So,” he said softly. “The thing is done. The Malfoy boy has proved himself to be a coward and a weakling, like his father.”_

**_Just kill me now._ **

_Severus made a move to speak but the Dark Lord held up a hand and silenced him. “A coward and a weakling, but a loyal and more competent one. And the thing is done. Dumbledore is dead.” The mouth opened and the teeth glinted and the joy clashed with the rage. “Remove yourself.”_

_It took Draco a moment to realize the Dark Lord was talking to him. That he was sparing his life. He backed out of the room. The doors shut. He turned. Arms wrapped around him, loose, unbound hair brushed his face and Narcissa was breathing, “Draco, Draco, my son, my son.”_

_Draco pulled back, some feeling returning to his hands and feet and soul. He looked Narcissa in the eyes. She looked back. He was alive. Draco swallowed. “Drinks?”_

_Narcissa nodded curtly. They stole through the house to Lucius’s old study. “Wine or whiskey?” Narcissa asked, and then without waiting for an answer she poured him a fire-whiskey. To Draco’s tired surprise, she poured the same for herself. They sat across from each other. Draco drank his fire-whiskey like a man starved for air. He poured himself another, expecting Narcissa to protest and intending to pay no attention. She said nothing, and even gave what could have been a nod of approval._

_Draco leaned back, drinking this one more slowly, feeling his mind unfreeze. He pulled out his wand and lit the fire. Narcissa’s hair hung draggled about her drawn, tired face. Circles under her eyes, hollow cheeks, nails that held chipped remnants of nail polish. Narcissa looked up, saw him staring at her. She put down her drink and ran her fingers through her hair, twisting it up and out of her face._

_“He’s here,” Draco said. He hadn’t been intending to speak. The words came from far away. The blow hit him as he spoke them. He swallowed. “Why is He **here**?”_

_“It isn’t our place to question, Draco,” Narcissa said softly. She smoothed her hair and picked up her drink, finishing it with an uncharacteristically large swig._

_Draco licked his lips and leaned forward. He shook his head. “No. No. This is our home. This is our manor.” He struggled to keep his voice low. “Why is He in our home?” She didn’t answer and the unstoppable words kept welling out. “This was our last place. This was the last thing we had. I don’t want—”_

_“Draco!” Narcissa snapped, not in a cruel way, but only to get his attention. She whispered, “Don’t be a fool. You mustn’t say it. You mustn’t think it. You are living within the same walls of the most powerful Legilimens—the most powerful wizard—the world has ever seen. He wishes to stay in this manor, so He stays.”_

_Draco continued to shake his head, slowly, fingers pressed to his temple. “Then it won’t be a home.”_

_Narcissa leaned far forward, wrapping her hand around his hand, wrapped around his glass. “No. As long as He is in this manor, as far as we are concerned, this is His manor. We are His servants. Don’t think about it. Accept it. It is fact.”_

_Draco looked up, anger seething in him. But he looked into Narcissa’s eyes and saw the same anger reflected. It wasn’t resignation. It wasn’t defeat. It was understanding and patient cunning. Draco nodded, she nodded back._

_The next week passed like something out of a haunted nightmare. Neither attempted to or even thought of suggesting to leave the other. They avoided their own halls as much as they could. The Dark Lord mostly stayed, but occasionally he left. Bellatrix was dizzyingly happy. He sometimes summoned Draco along with the other Death Eaters, but Draco understood little. He found it difficult to listen. He heard snippets of reports of the movements of various members of their opponents. Nothing of it meant anything to him._

_He and Narcissa mostly stayed in the study. Narcissa polished her appearance and Draco did the same. They were rusted, terrified shells but they were clean and their clothes were pressed. After the first night Narcissa limited both of their alcohol intake, but she didn’t cut either of them off._

_That fatal day. They both sat there as the small hours of the morning ticked by, dozing off, not making any move to leave. Beyond the door they sometimes heard movement, soft voices, Bellatrix cackling._

_It was the slightly larger small hours of the morning when a frazzled house-elf interrupted them._

_“Mistress,” it squeaked. Narcissa stirred and opened her eyes._

_“What?” she murmured._

_“Snit thought Mistress would like to know,” the house-elf shifted its weight back and forth nervously. “There was a breakout from Azkaban.”_

_Narcissa sat bolt upright. Draco sat upright more slowly._

_“This very moment,” Snit continued, hopping getting more frantic. “Master Malfoy is coming up the drive. Master Malfoy has returned!”_

_Narcissa was almost out the door before the house-elf had stopped speaking. Draco let out a breath and went limp in the chair, the world lifting from his shoulders. He pushed himself out of the chair, knees weak, mind whirling and dizzy and light. Narcissa hesitated until Draco caught up to her, then they both all but ran to the front door. Gloom permeated the front hall, despite the grey light outside. The silence echoed around them. Draco didn’t dare wonder where the Dark Lord had gone._

_Narcissa threw open the front door. Her breath caught and she darted outside. Draco stood in the doorway. He grabbed the frame. A stooped, shrunken form shuffled up the path, hair gray and matted and frazzled, gray clothing torn and patched. Discolored rags wrapped around its hands. A face with sunken, hollow, eyes. Skin mottled and riddled with unnatural colors._

_Narcissa didn’t once slow or hesitate. She reached the figure, pried one of its arms from where it gripped its middle and put it over her shoulders. She wrapped her own arm around its waist and pulled it up. It let out a sound that a weak kitten might._

_Draco’s mouth went dry. He spoke in a whispered too quiet for himself to hear. “ **Father**?” _

_Narcissa looked up. “Draco, help me.”_

_Draco’s legs carried him to them. His spirit remained behind hugging the doorframe, confused and disbelieving. He took the figment’s other arm and pulled it up and around his shoulders. Crust on the sleeve grated against the skin of his neck. A smell of dried sweat and stale vomit and moldy dank. The discoloration on its face was dirt and bruises and blood. The face lifted, the eyes turned on him. A low grating in its throat. The lips parted, gelatinous blood dribbling over. They curved._

_“Draco?” the hoarse voice quivered. Draco looked away. “Draco,” the figure sighed._

_“Come, Lucius,” said Narcissa, gentle and calm. “Inside.”_

_They hobbled up to the steps. Lucius’s finger gripped Draco’s shoulder. “Is He here?”_

_“I don’t know,” said Narcissa. “He was.”_

_Draco looked into the gloom from the bright patch of morning’s light in which they stood. He set his jaw. “He’s here. Somewhere.”_

_Lucius didn’t answer, but they both felt him tighten and quiver. His head drooped. Narcissa and Draco looked over his bowed head at each other._

_“The study,” said Narcissa, and they pulled him, silently, one step at a time, through what used to be their halls like three guilty shadows._

_Lucius dropped into his old armchair. Draco stepped away the instant the arm slid from his shoulders. He watched in a horrified fascination as Narcissa turned up the lamps, gave orders to the house-elf to bring supplies. She murmured softly to Lucius, voice more tender than Draco had ever heard it. Lucius gave monosyllable replies, blinking his blackened eyes and looking around the room as if unable to believe he was actually here. His unfocused gaze fell on Draco and his eyes brightened. Draco turned away. He brought a shaking hand to his mouth and pressed it there. The house-elf brought freshly laundered clothing. He tried to ignore their soft voices and stood staring unseeingly at an empty portrait on the wall._

_“Draco,” said Narcissa. Draco turned around._

_Lucius, out of his prison clothing, looked even worse. The physical change was pronounced. He’d lost a frightening amount of weight. The washed away blood and dirt revealed the cuts and abrasions and bruises. Lucius sat up straight. He drank the fire-whiskey Narcissa handed him and held his head up. He looked at Draco again, and Draco forced himself to not look away._

_“Draco,” said Lucius, and some of the rasp had vanished. “I know I have you to thank for my release, and so…thank you.”_

_He should feel proud. He should feel glad. He should feel relieved. He’d succeeded. In all of the ways that mattered, he’d succeeded. So why did he feel still feel like an immense coward?_

_Draco swallowed. “Azkaban—Azkaban did this to you?”_

_“Draco,” Narcissa admonished, rising._

_Lucius held up a hand. The hand shook, but his voice didn’t. “It’s all right, Narcissa. No. No, Draco. Not…entirely.” He took another drink and said nothing else. Draco went to the window and drew aside a few centimeters of the sash, watching the mist roll across the cold lawn. He dimly wondered where the peacocks had gone._

_Narcissa and Lucius whispered together as he stood there. When he turned around again Lucius’s chin was against his chest and his arms draped over the armrests, his legs stretched out, a woolen blanket tucked around his knees. Narcissa, sitting very close to her shadow of a husband with a cup of tea in her hand, looked up at Draco. Then Draco understood._

_The world crashed back onto his shoulders._


	8. Chapter 8

Draco was thankful for the cold weather. It gave him an excuse to keep his hood pulled down low and to not speak to anyone. The holiday crowds, on the positive side, meant that nobody noticed him. But on the negative side they also ensured that he was constantly jostled and pushed. Draco squeezed his money pouch in his pocket. _Breathe,_ he reminded himself, slipping through the door of Philglas  & Swiggot's.

Regarded as one of the best wine shops in London in both Muggle and the Wizarding worlds, one entrance faced the unassuming Northcote Road. The other was hidden to Muggles. There were, of course, many upscale wine shops in London that wizards frequented. But there was a particular reason Draco needed this one.

"Welcome to Philglas & Swiggot's," droned a thin wizard as he entered the shop. "How may I help you?"

Draco reluctantly made eye contact, but the wizard's expression didn't change. _Whew._ Feeling a little better, he said, "I'd like to inquire about your rare wines."

A spark of excitement came into the wizard eyes. He glanced around the shop (the only other person inside was a hunched old witch browsing the cheapest wines available, peering into their depths with a magnifying glass and counting change in her palm). The wizard straightened, and gave his jacket collar a proud tug. "We at Philglas & Swiggot's specialize in rare wines for the inquiring Witch or Wizard. Though," he glanced at Draco's pocket where his hand still held the money pouch. "It being the holiday season, even the most common of rare wines is getting…well, rarer."

"I'm interested in dragon-tear infused red wines."

"Yes, well, let me see what we have…" the wine merchant bustled behind the counter and opened a dark cabinet. Draco relaxed a little. This was the scene he was familiar with – the ones where people scrambled to please him because he was the one with the money. Though, usually their pandering was directed towards whichever of his parents he was accompanying, not directly at him. "Did you have something more specific in mind?"

"Something high-quality." Draco put his arm on the counter and leaned against it. God, he had missed this treatment. If the Ministry hadn't forbidden the Malfoys the use of Polyjuice potion, he would always go about unrecognized. "It's not for me. It's a gift for someone who will be able to tell the difference – and who will complain if it's anything less." A mild lie – Narcissa wouldn't complain. She would tell Draco it was the best wine she'd ever tasted, even if it was sludge.

The wine-merchant stopped. He turned around and peered at Draco. "Hold on a moment…do I know you?"

Draco stared back, but inside he cringed. Bloody hell, he should have known not to act too much like an aristocrat. "I don't believe so."

The merchant frowned. He returned to the shadowy cabinet. "I'm sorry, but as I said, it's very busy right now…"

Draco played it cool. "I'm willing to pay well."

"Yes, well, you see…even we at Philglas and Swiggot's can't pull wines out of thin air, not if you were willing to pay one hundred galleons."

"I'll pay you one hundred and ten."

"Doesn't matter," said the merchant. "We're all out!"

"That's not what you said a minute ago!" Draco began to get angry. "We've gotten wine from here for years. I know you have some on hand!"

The merchant looked past him. "All ready then, Mrs. Abbercott?" The old witch payed for her wine and left. The merchant put the money away and said in a shaky voice, "I want you out of my shop. Right now."

Draco didn't move. "One hundred and fifteen."

The merchant reached down, then spun to face Draco with his wand pointed at his face. "I _do_ recognize you. You're the Malfoy boy." _Damn._ "And I want you out of my shop this instant, or I'll call the Hit Wizards!"

"I'm not threatening you!" Draco gripped the counter edge. "I'm here as a customer. _Only_ as a customer."

The merchant backed away. "I'm warning you!"

Draco leaned forward. "Look, nobody will know I was here. Nobody will know you sold to me, all right? I just want one regular-sized bottle of red dragon-tear infused wine. I'll pay whatever you say."

The merchant looked him up and down. He glanced towards the windows and lifted his chin. "I'll not take less than one hundred and thirty."

Internally, Draco winced. Externally, he said, "Fine."

Draco had agreed too quickly. The wizard's face fell a little. He amended, "Make that one hundred and forty."

Draco glared at him. He hesitated, then growled, "Fine."

Draco counted out the money, then the wizard re-counted it and claimed that Draco was five short. Draco continued glaring, but he gave him the extra five galleons, snatched up the bottle, and left. He didn't know much about rare wines, but he suspected he'd may have paid twice whatever this particular bottle was worth.

_Breathe. You got it. It's fine. You didn't expect anything less._

One down, one to go. The brown paper-wrapped bottle clunked against the pieces of walking stick in Draco's bag as he slunk down Diagon Alley, searching for an appropriate side-street. Once, his hood caught on someone's agitated owl's talons. Twice, he tripped over someone's boots and once over a small child on their hands and knees, trying to catch a rat. But he finally squeezed out of the crowd and ducked down a narrow alley. Stray wisps of snow were in the cracks between the cobbles. Draco risked looking up, scanning the different signs. He'd never been on this downscale street before – but the less popular the better, as long as he could find someone competent. Unsure of where to go or who to ask, Draco picked a shop with a sign so old the orange paint could only barely be read – _Trinker's Trinkets._

Inside, the air held a peculiar sharp smell, tempered slightly by something like souring cream. By the door, an assortment of umbrellas and canes sprouted out of a barrel with warped sides. Immediately in front of the door and Draco's face was a bookcase whose shelves were stuffed to bursting with odds and ends that glimmered through layers of dust and cobwebs and occasionally scratched themselves or muttered under their breath. Draco sidled past the tall shelf (it leaned towards the door slightly as though it might topple at any second) and circled carefully around a precarious-looking pile of newspapers and flyers that was taller than he was. Beyond it were similar shelves. All were hung on the ends with flickering lanterns. Draco began to regret coming in here, but he powered on, stepping over a pile of moldy something and over what he hoped was a napping cat.

"Hello?" he called out.

"Who's there?" a cheery, cracked voice answered immediately. Draco started to step towards it. "Nope, no, don't move, you'll just get lost. I'll come to you. What's your name, dear?"

"Uh," said Draco. "It's—er—Jamie."

"And what are you looking for today, Jamie?" In between two bookcases that were nearly touching, two glowing orbs appeared. A moment later, the skinniest woman Draco had ever seen in his life popped out from in between them. She peered up at him through curly white strands of hair that hung over her eyes. Thousands of wrinkles lined her face. She wore a pant suit that could have been made of the same cobwebs lining her shelves. "Well?"

Draco coughed and gripped the flap of his bag. "I'm not looking for something, exactly, I'm looking for someone who can fix something for me."

The woman blinked. Then she smiled and started to laugh. "I'm not a _repair_ woman, dear, didn't you read the sign over the door?"

"Yeah," Draco admitted. "I thought, I guess, you might know someone who does repairs?"

The woman sprang to a plate on a shelf and rubbed the dust off with her sleeve. "I know lots of people, dear, but didn't you know it's rude to come into a shop without intending to buy anything, or at least have an idea of what they're looking for? Are you sure you don't see anything you like?" She turned and smiled at him. Draco took one step backwards. "Anybody can find something they like in here, it's miles deep. Would you like to see the back room?"

"No thanks," said Draco, perhaps a bit too earnestly, turning. "I'll just go. Sorry for wasting your…" he trailed off. On the floor next to one bookcase stood a tall stool. On it sat a bulbous piece of plastic, like those faceless mannequin heads on which people kept wigs. But instead of holding a wig, the head's brow was entwined with a circlet of what looked like leaf-and-flower-covered thin branches cut from a silver tree. Silver chains, also covered with leaves, hung from the twigs in loops and trailed on towards the ground where they swayed like pieces of ivy. But, most striking of all, tiny figures fluttered about the entire ensemble, made of the same silvery substance but glowing orange in the lamplight. Draco had to stare at it hard to make out butterflies – dozens of butterflies of varying sizes.

It was the most ridiculous piece of jewelry Draco had ever seen in his life.

"Like it?" the woman's hand came down on his arm and Draco jumped, startled.

"No," he said truthfully. "Sorry, it just – reminded me of someone." He glanced at it once more, then pulled away from the woman. He was almost to the door when, without knowing why, he spun around and called out, "How much is it?"

The woman had already disappeared into her junk, but her voice came floating from somewhere in the shadows. "Ten galleons."

"I'll take it," said Draco, then choked on his own sentence. _What the HELL am I thinking?_

"Wonderful!" squealed the woman.

The pile of papers that Draco had passed earlier exploded. He jumped again. Amidst the rain of fluttering memos and flyers, the woman pressed a paper bag into his hand. Draco fumbled with his (much lighter) money pouch and gave her the money. A flyer fluttered down onto his head. Draco pulled it off. "You wouldn't know where I could get a walking stick repaired, do you?"

"Try Ornaments and Overhauls," said the woman. "Just down the street, to the right. Tell Eva that Tel Trinker sent you."

"Thanks." Draco looked down at the flyer in his hand and his heart went into his mouth. But he managed to speak in a calm voice, "Can I keep this?"

"Certainly," said the woman, floating back through her bookcases. "I've plenty to spare. Have a good Christmas, Jamie."

Draco escaped outside. Blood pounding in his temple, he darted around a corner and knelt down behind a tall crate with _Fillington's Fire-Whiskey – no liquor hotter!_ engraved on the side. He shoved the paper bag into his own and held the flyer so tight it crinkled. 

**_The Ministry's Dark, Secret Prejudice_ **

_The LIE: Prejudice died with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_

_The REALITY: The pureblood tradition is ENDANGERED_

_The LIE: The Ministry seeks only to punish wrong-doers_

_The REALITY: The Ministry punishes the INNOCENT while claiming to punish the GUILTY_

_Do YOU want to support the practice of STAMPING OUT some of the OLDEST, MOST RESPECTED families in the Wizarding World?_

_STAND UP! SPEAK OUT! **Release our mothers, fathers, and dearest related! Stop separating our families!**_

Photographs of Bulstrode, Crabbe Sr, Goyle Sr, Mulciber Jr, and Nott.

Draco licked his lips, feeling sick to his stomach. _Flyers._ Was this what Peasegood had been talking about? What sort of suicidal idiot was attempting to spread this sort of talk around? He turned the paper over, looking for clues. Of course there were none. The language of the flyer was beyond stupid – it was feeble, even childish. What was the _point_? He rubbed his eyes. One good thing, he comforted himself, was that his parents at least didn't have anything to do with the flyers. They would never have anything to do with trying to convince the public to release some of the Death Eaters from Azkaban, for the supposed good of the innocent families or not…would they? Surely the last thing the Malfoys wanted was to free another army intent on destroying them.

After a minute or so of regaining his composure, Draco folded the flyer very small and slid it into a pocket deep within his bag and went in search of Ornaments and Overhauls. It wasn't at all difficult to find. A duck nesting above the door squawked as he entered. The proprietor, a young, brunette, dark-skinned woman with a large nose and dressed in stained coveralls, lounged on a chair on one side of the shop with her feet propped up on a table as she read last week's copy of _Witch Weekly_ and chewed on a licorice wand.

"Yeah, I can fix it," she said, glancing at the pieces of the walking stick. "And I can refurbish so it fits that wand, no problem." Just as Draco's hopes began to go up, she dashed them all to pieces the next moment. "Won't be doing it, though."

"Why not?" Draco demanded.

"You want it done before Christmas, for starters, which is something I don't feel like doing. For another thing, it belongs to a Dark Wizarding family and I'm not going to touch it." She gnawed off a piece of licorice wand and glanced up at him. "Don't look so surprised. Maybe I don't read the _Daily Prophet_ on a daily basis, but I'm not so ignorant as to not know the Malfoys as the people who gave up all their Death Eater buddies."

Draco stammered. "How did—"

"The name is engraved on the end, you dunderhead."  She had glanced at the walking stick for ten seconds, max.

"But," Draco tried reason. "The Malfoys – betrayed the, um, Death Eaters, right? So why do you care?"

"It's called principles, buddy," said Eva, biting down on the licorice and stretching it out until the piece broke off with a snap.

"I'll pay you well," said Draco.

"I said it's called _principles._ Do I look like a sell-out to you?"

Draco chose to not answer that question. He said, desperately, "Tel Trinker sent me."

Eva stopped chewing for a moment. "Tel? Didn't threaten her or anything, did you?"

"No," said Draco, offended. "I bought something from her."

"Oh, well, you didn't have to give her your name for that, didja?" Eva finished her licorice and wiped her fingers on her coveralls. "Tell me, are you a member of the Malfoy family or do you just run errands for them?"

"I'm just – I work for them."

"Pity. I might have been able to make you a deal if you were a member of the family." Eva's head disappeared back behind the magazine. Draco stood there, debating with himself. The top half of the magazine flipped down and Eva's eyes peered out at him. "Why are you still standing there?"

"I lied," Draco admitted. "My name is Draco Malfoy."

Eva gave a disgusted little sigh. "You're just telling me what you think I want to hear. Get out. I don't have time for pathetic, whoever-you-are."

"You're right, I'm telling you what you want to hear," said Draco. "But I'm telling the truth."

Eva raised her eyebrows. "Prove it then."

Draco fidgeted. "Well…here's my wand—"

"How'm I supposed to know what Draco Malfoy's wand looks like?" snorted Eva. She swung her legs down from the table and sat up. "You got the mark?" Draco froze. "Show me the mark and I'll believe you."

Draco gritted his teeth. "What's the deal you want to make? Tell me that first and I'll decide if I want to do it."

Eva shook her head. "It involves things that aren't legal. Can't talk about them to anybody except someone who wants to get caught breaking the law even less than I do."

The hairs on Draco's neck prickled and his heart began pound. _I can't do this._

"No?" said Eva, making Draco wonder momentarily if he'd accidentally spoken out loud. "Then get lost." She reached under the table and pulled out another licorice wand, putting her feet back on the table.

Draco clenched and unclenched his fist. _I'll try somewhere else,_ he told himself. But even the thought made him feel ill. Too many people recognized him, and of course any others he went to would realize who he was as soon as they looked closely at the walking stick. Eva, at least, didn't seem frightened of him, or even that disgusted.

 _If she wants you to do something illegal,_ his reason whispered, _And if she doesn't want people finding out about it, she by extension won't want people finding out about you or about the job she's doing for you—_

 _But you're risking far more than she is!_ His counter-reason argued back. _What if it's just a trap? What if she wants to get you to agree to something terrible and then turn you in?_

"Make up your mind," said Eva, looking up at him with her arms crossed. "I haven't got all day."

 _I am not showing a random stranger the mark!_ Thought Draco furiously.

 _"Young Master Malfoy cares very much for his family!_ " screamed his memory. _"Young Master Malfoy is very kind and takes care of his family!_ "

"God _damn_ it." Draco pulled his sleeve halfway up his forearm and looked straight ahead while Eva again swung her legs down and leaned forward to study it.

"All right, good enough for me," she said. Draco jerked his sleeve back into place. "It's supposed to be faded or something, though, isn't it?" Draco didn't reply. Eva didn't seem concerned because she continued, pointing behind him. "See that man out there?" Across from the front window of the shop, a wizard with scruffy dark hair, a dirty face, and even scruffier trousers lounged in a rickety-looking wooden chair in front of a pub. "He fancies me, and as soon as you leave he's going to come in here and try to get me to get a drink with him."

Draco looked back at Eva and frowned. "How do you know that?"

"Because he does it every day. He owes me a few sickles, you see, and he won't pay me back until I get a drink with him."

Draco did not like where this conversation was going. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Simple. I want you to make him pay me back. I've tried everything: friends, family, fake boyfriends, love potions, asking politely, calling the Hit Wizards on him – nothing works. He's like a leech."

 _I don't care._ Draco gritted his teeth. "If nothing works, what exactly do you expect me to do?" _And where does illegality come into this?_

"You're a Dark Wizard, aren't you? Force him."

Draco's spine prickled. _She can't be serious._ "Are you suggesting—"

Eva held up a hand and gave him a meaningful look. "I'm not suggesting anything." 

Draco glanced out the window and then back out Eva. "Look, I'll just pay you what he owes you."

"You're not a very bright one, are you? I don't _care_ about the money. This is about principles. He's a prick. I want _him_ to give me my money and hopefully, by extension, leave me alone."

Draco stared at the ground, struggling to ignore the voice in his head that was screaming, _This is much too big of a risk for a simple **Christmas** present, you idiot! He doesn't even deserve it!_

_But it's more than a Christmas present, isn't it? It's just as much for Mother as it is for him._

"If I do this," said Draco slowly. " _If…_ how much money do you want besides?"

"None," said Eva. "I don't want your money. I don't want anything connecting me to you. This is a trade, plain and simple. A favor for a favor."

Draco sweated for another minute before he said, "Fine. But I'll need your wand."

Eva burst out laughing. "Merlin's beard, I'm not going to let you use my wand! What would be the point in having you do it then?"

"But I can't use mine!" Draco snapped.

"Then use the black walnut."

"I can't use that either." Not only would it be a larger risk than he was willing to take, but he didn't think it was possible – for the same reasons it wasn't possible for Lucius.

"Not my problem." Eva picked up the silver serpent's head and examined it, still sniggering. "My wand…as if…" Draco clenched and unclenched his fist. Then he whirled and stalked from the shop. He went a little ways down the street before he slowed and looked back. As Eva had predicted, the scruffy man had disappeared from the table in front of the pub and the door of Ornaments and Overhauls was swinging shut with the squawk of a duck. 

Draco closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and returned to the shop. _Silencio,_ he said silently, then slipped through the door.

"You know my offer," the man was saying. "You're a stubborn one."

"Stubborn as they come," said Eva with her back to both the man and Draco as she rummaged in a drawer. Draco saw with relief that she had cleared the table of his belongings. "Contrary to your beliefs, my tastes have not diminished since you were here yesterday."

"What are you afraid of?" the man pleaded. "It's just one drink." Draco crept up behind him.

"Nothing, with you, is ever just one drink. Now, if you were to find some manners…"

The man leaned against the table. Draco stepped directly behind him and slipped his hand into the man's cloak. Nothing. The man pounded his fist on the table, making Draco leap back, and made a lewd suggestion. Draco grimaced. He stepped to the man's other side and tried again. This time his hand closed on a cool, slender piece of wood. He withdrew the man's wand from his pocket.

Eva still refused to turn around. "If you don't give me my money, Reuben, I swear I'm going to report you."

"It's just seven sickles," said Reuben. "And I can make it well worth your time."

Draco crouched down behind a large box filled with bolts and knockers. He fingered the wand, which vibrated in an irritated manner in his palm. Gripping it tight, Draco closed his eyes and fought it. _Submit. Submit._

On the bright side, any remnants of guilt he may have felt at conspiring against this man with his own wand was rapidly diminishing as Reuben's language got more crude and Eva admirably kept her cool. "Reuben, I'm warning you." Eva finally turned around, placed one palm flat on the table, and with the other she gripped her wand with which she jabbed his chin. "I will hex all of your teeth out if you don't leave me alone."

The wand vibrated in Draco's hand, spilling sickly-looking green sparks on the ground. Draco hissed through his teeth. " _Imperio!"_ His stomach gave a sickening lurch.

Reuben glared back at Eva for several seconds. Then he dug into his pocket, slammed a handful of coins on the table, and stomped back towards the door. Draco released him as he passed his hiding place. _Confundo._ Reuben staggered and grabbed at a coatrack. Draco stuck out his arm and slid the wand back into his robe pocket. Reuben shuddered, shook himself, and left the shop. After waiting half a minute, Draco stood. Eva, who was staring down at the money with a very surprised look on her face, jumped as he emerged from behind the box.

 _"Merlin!_ I didn't realize you had come in!"

Draco, his nausea getting worse by the minute, gestured at the table. "Will you do it, then?"

"We made a deal, didn't we?" Eva swept the sickles into her palm. "I'll have it ready for you by Christmas Eve. You have my word."

That evening, Draco felt too ill to eat much. Narcissa could tell something was wrong, and she whispered questions to him when Lucius wasn't looking. Draco waved her off. The memory of the unforgivable curse wouldn't leave him alone, and his un-faded mark felt more alive than ever. He felt small points of pressure on his arm all throughout dinner, as though a mouse was marching up and down across his skin. Once, he could have sworn someone had come up behind and touched his shoulder. He started so hard when this happened that his chair scooted back from the table and nearly toppled over.

Narcissa stood. "Draco? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Draco scrambled to his feet and stared at the emptiness behind his chair. "Nothing. I'm really tired. I'm going to bed."

He took a larger swallow of potion than usual that night. But it was all worth it, he tried to convince himself, when he went back to the shop Christmas Eve morning and there was a package waiting there for him.

*

"Draco, darling, your father and I are going to have a drink in the study later this evening." Narcissa reached across the dining room table and gripped his hand, smiling. "Will you join us?"

Draco was jerked (thankfully) from his thoughts about the previous Christmas Eve. "Er, yeah, of course," he answered, forcing a smile at Narcissa and then Lucius while he tried to shake the cellar from his mind.

Of all the rooms in the house, the study was one of the ones he hated the most. It smelled so close in here, and it had practically become his house when their manor had been confiscated by the Dark Lord. But he had to admit it had seen worse days. Nippy had created a roaring fire and, probably due to Draco's request several days ago, had opened wide the curtains, through which snow could be seen falling. On the table sat two ornate silver bowls, one that contained steaming spiced cider, the other eggnog. There were silver cups to match, and a platter filled with biscuits.

"What would you like, darling?" asked Narcissa.

"Eggnog," said Draco, distracted by how oddly cheery the flames looked. Inside his jacket pocket, Draco fingered the edge of the flyer he'd found at Diagon Alley. He carried it around with him (he couldn't help it), reading it, trying to find more clues in it. In the other pocket he kept the paper bag he'd gotten from Trinker's Trinkets, solely for the purpose of making sure nobody (including Nippy) found it in his room.

"Cider, please, my dear," said Lucius in the same moment. They both looked at each other. Narcissa only smiled and picked up the ladle. Lucius leaned over and put his hand over hers. "You shouldn't do that. I'll call the house-elf."

"I'd rather it just be us tonight, if you don't mind," said Narcissa, squeezing his fingers. "Draco, would you close the curtains please?"

"I kind of like them like this," said Draco, looking out at the snow again. He pretended not to see his parents glance at each other. Then, to his astonishment, it was Lucius who spoke and not Narcissa.

"Let's leave them, then," he said, still looking at Narcissa.

"If you say so, darling," said Narcissa, and she resumed pouring the drinks. "Come and sit down."

Draco obeyed, sitting across from the fire in the loveseat and hanging his jacket over the back.  There were sprigs of holly and evergreen on the mantle. Draco wondered when Nippy had put them up. Narcissa handed them their glasses and sat down beside Draco. The three of them sat there without saying anything for a long time. And for once – it felt like nothing needed saying. Draco leaned back and relaxed, staring at the hypnotic flames as they danced in the hearth. Even the thought that his parents were hiding something important from him seemed less alarming.

_We're still a family._

He reached over and touched Narcissa's hand. She laced her fingers through his without hesitation and drank from her own glass of cider.

 _We're still a family,_ Draco thought to himself, _but we're still in danger._ He took a deep breath.

"Is there…" he paused. "Is there anything I should know about our agreement with the Ministry? We haven't heard from them recently, have we?"

"Oh, come now, Draco!" Lucius snapped. "You don't really want to talk about that now, do you?"

"It's all right, Lucius." Narcissa gave a slight squeeze on Draco's hand that he couldn't interpret – either she meant to sooth him, or warn him to be quiet. "Not since you've been back, Draco, no."

Draco slowly let out his breath. When he reached the end of it, he tried again. "It's only that…well, I've had a wand check or two at school." Draco, out of his peripheral vision, saw Lucius's hand tighten slightly on the arm of his chair. "Just briefly, you know. Routine. Since I'm around students. I just wondered, have they – anything like that here?"

"Of course," said Narcissa. "Once or twice. It was expected, though. Why the concern?"

"You would tell me," Draco looked his mother in the eye. "If something was wrong, wouldn't you?"

His mother looked back. "Of course." She had once lied to the Dark Lord's face and He hadn't caught on. Draco wrestled with himself – he wanted so desperately to believe she wouldn't lie to him.

"You would tell me if there was something…significant going on here, right?"

Narcissa sighed. "What's this about, darling?"

"It's just that…" Draco chewed his lower lip and changed tactics. “I hate that they’re reading our letters. I hate their meddling. I’m—” Draco almost said "afraid," but he caught himself. “—concerned. Concerned that I’ll wake up one day to a front-page story in the Daily Prophet that something’s happened. We need to think of a password, a phrase, something, to alert each other if there’s anything…wrong.”

“Understandable, understandable,” said Lucius. His hand stopped gripping the chair arm. “Not a bad idea.”

"All right then," said Draco. He glanced towards the window, out at the snow. "Sunrise."

"What?" said Narcissa, following his gaze.

"As a password," said Draco. "In letters. If I get a worried note from you about a rumor or something else, I'll send you back a note that mentions I saw a sunrise if I'm fine. Or if you need to let me know something has happened, you tell me that it was – I don't know, a disappointing sunrise or something?" He stopped, feeling foolish.

"All right," Narcissa stroked the back of his hand. “That will be our new mode of communication. But, darling, I hardly think it will be necessary."

"Won't it?" asked Draco dryly. "It's only a matter of time before somebody tries something, isn't it? Whether they were followers of – I mean, whether they were on Potter's side or not, someone is going to try something."

"They will fail," said Lucius loudly.

"Of course they will, that's for certain," Draco shot him an impatient glance as he spoke the lie. "But that doesn't mean we shouldn't reassure each other, right? What could it hurt?"

"Nothing, I suppose," Lucius grumbled, his shoulders slouching as he glared down in his glass.

"We'll do it," said Narcissa, glancing between her son and her husband. "But really, Draco, we should be fine. You are at Hogwarts, of course, which has proven itself to be strong against outside attacks. And the Ministry is – honestly – watching us very closely. It would be exceedingly difficult for anybody to attempt to harm us without their knowledge." That fact did not really comfort Draco. "I believe we are quite safe. It is an inconvenience, but—"

"What's an inconvenience?" Draco asked.

"It's a bloody insult," interrupted Lucius. "This is our home—"

"Lucius," said Narcissa sharply.

"—our home, not theirs, didn't belong to Him or your sister then," Lucius proclaimed. (Draco felt slightly taken aback—Lucius had just said out loud that their manor had never belonged to the Dark Lord?) "And," Lucius continued, slapping his hand down on the chair arm. "It doesn't belong to the Aurors now!"

"Lucius!"

"Aurors," Draco said slowly. "What do Aurors have to do with anything?"

"Draco," Narcissa stroked his hand, and shot glances at Lucius as her husband drained his glass and looked strangely pleased with himself as he muttered something under his breath. "The Ministry – the Aurors – they are inconvenient, but they are only searching for traces of other Death Eaters which is, you must admit, both to their benefit and to our own. They don't want the others out and about any more than we do."

"Searching," Draco repeated numbly.

"They haven't found anything, of course," Lucius said with an air of dignity as he ladled himself another glass of cider. "And they won't, no matter how many times they invade."

Draco's mind reeled. “ _Aurors_? In the _house_?”

Lucius looked at Draco with raised eyebrows and a surprised expression, as if he'd forgotten Draco was sitting there. "Well, did you expect anything less from these people?" he asked with a scowl, taking another gulp of cider.

Narcissa looked away. She sounded resigned. “Yes, Draco, in the house. But they are not looking to harm us, they are merely checking that we are staying within our limits.”

“How many times have they _been_ here?” Draco pulled his hand away. He looked around the room. It was as if he could see the Ministry's fingerprints all over it, Aurors running their wands all over his parents as they stood in silence.

“Four or five," said Narcissa.  They had been through his room, through all their belongings, multiple times? He felt as though he had been personally violated. “Anyway, if the—others—were to attempt to get to us, the Aurors would know. Potter assured us—”

“ _Potter?_ ” Draco’s voice rose. Lucius slouched down further and stared at the fire. “ _Potter_ was here?”

“With the Aurors,” Narcissa’s voice quieted even further “Yes. He’s training—”

“Potter was here, and you didn’t _tell_ me?” Narcissa looked at the ground. "When?" Draco demanded. She didn't answer. " _When_?"

"Don't talk to your mother like that," Lucius protested in a small voice. They both ignored him.

"The second time they came," Narcissa answered, looking down and folding her hands in her lap. "Around the first of October."

Right before Draco had hexed Harper. Right before he'd gone up to see McGonagall. Right before he'd seen Potter.

Potter hadn't been embarrassed because he was present at Draco's telling-off at all. He'd been embarrassed because he'd been snooping around Draco's house. Because he'd seen his parents like this.

Draco's ears burned and something inside of him snapped. He jumped to his feet and shoved his hand into his jacket pocket, yanking out the rumpled flyer. He shook it out and hung it in his mother's face. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you?"

Narcissa sat very still and looked up at him, past the flyer. "Where did you get that?"

"It doesn't matter," Draco snapped. "What is it? You know, don't you?"

"I think it's pretty obvious what it is," said Narcissa. "What are you really asking?"

Draco lowered his arm, crinkling the flyer as his hand tightened into a fist. "I want to know whether you have anything to hide from the Aurors. I want to know whether you have anything to do with this."

"No."

"Though quite frankly, they do have a point—"

"Be quiet, Lucius."

Draco stared down at his mother and she stared back at him. Draco shook his head, slightly, while Lucius continued to mutter in the background, "Magical blood—shouldn't just be tossed to the side—"

"Draco," Narcissa leaned forward, gazing at Draco. "I don't know what you've heard—I don't know what they've told you—but I promise you, darling, we have nothing to do with it."

Draco worked hard to keep his voice from shaking. He failed. "By 'they,' you mean the Ministry?"

"—only one of the few true purebloods families left—" Lucius was telling the fireplace.

Narcissa nodded, still keeping her gaze fixed on him. "They thought we were behind it as well."

Draco felt cold. "What did they do?"

Narcissa glanced behind him at Lucius, and then looked back at him. "They took us to the Ministry and questioned us." Such a simple answer, Draco knew, could not possibly be simple at all when the Ministry was involved. He suddenly realized why Narcissa was giving Lucius calming draughts.

"You were taken in for questioning about some Death-Eater-release plot? And you didn't _tell_ me? Did they keep you in Azkaban at all?" Narcissa didn't answer, and all of the frustration, all of the hopelessness, all of the fear, all of the agony he felt when he faced his parents’ broken spirits came bursting out. “What’s the _matter_ with you two?” he cried. Lucius cringed. His cider sloshed over the side of his cup. “Don’t you get it? Don’t you see what they’re doing? Aurors and the Ministry are skulking about, reading our mail, harassing you and throwing you in prison whenever the feel like it, and—what else are they doing you haven't told me about? Interrogating our house elves? Setting Dementors around the Manor? Sniffing through the laundry? What’s next? And you’re just going to sit back and _let_ them?”

“Don’t shout at your mother, Draco!” Lucius actually dared to look him in the eye.

“I’m not shouting!” Draco shouted, and then, catching himself, he snarled, “Well, now I am, but it’s your fault! You spoke to me for years of Malfoy pride, of Malfoy determination, of Malfoy blood. You told me I had to live up to it. You told me _you_ had lived up to it. But only when you’re at the top of the food chain, is that it? Now that we’ve enemies everywhere, you don’t have a spine? And after all this talk about Malfoy pride? _This_ is what you’re going to show for it?” Draco stepped back, disgust flooding through every inch of him, tears and loneliness and fear suddenly overwhelming and strengthening his anger. “You’re cowards! Both of you!”

“How dare you!” Lucius half-rose, hissing, “We’re _alive—_ ”

“Alive?” Draco exclaimed. “ _Alive_? You call _this_ living?" He swept his arm across the room. “We haven’t lived since V—” A painless bright light sliced through his mind and he faltered.

Lucius fell back into his seat, quivering. Narcissa blanched. “Don’t say His name!”

“I’ll—I'll say His name if I damn well please!” Draco snatched up his jacket and stalked to the door.

"Draco!" Narcissa got to her feet, voice fearful. “Where are you going?"

“I need some air. I trust the Ministry doesn’t quite have us on house arrest yet?” He glared over his shoulder. “Not that it would make much difference to you two, would it?” The clock struck midnight. Draco glanced at it. “Happy Christmas.” He slammed the door behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Philglas & Swiggot is a real wine shop located in London. I don't know a thing about them except I believe they have a good reputation, and their name sounds charmingly like something that could exist in the Wizarding world as well as the Muggle.
> 
> Also, to get the price of the wine, I used the approximation stated by JK Rowling: 1 Galleon roughly equals 5 British pounds, or approximately 7 US dollars. So yes, by normal human being standards (and by disgraced Malfoy standards), Draco spent a crap-ton on a bottle of wine.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of important things happen in this chapter. Some of the scenes I wrote the first draft of a long time ago, so I'm both super excited to share them and kind of terrified because I hope to god that they work. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

The brisk air smacked against his face as he stepped outside. It brought relief to his flaming cheeks. Without being quite conscious of where he was going, Draco walked down abandoned streets until found himself outside a nondescript newspaper stand, inside which a bearded old man smoked, leaning far back in his chair as the soft plumes obscured his face. Classic Christmas carols scratched their way out of a cracked Muggle-looking contraption.

“Excuse me,” Draco said. The man grunted. “This is a ministry transportation checkpoint, isn’t it?”

The man swung his feet down. “Name?” he droned in a Scottish accent, sounding bored.

“Draco Malfoy.”

The man’s gaze became sharp as he glanced up, but his voice remained droning. He pulled out a long hidden file drawer from the wall and flipped through it. “Parole?”

“Yes.”

“Reason?”

“I’m a Death Eater.”

The man grunted. “Destination?”

At this point Draco realized where he was going. “Ottery St Catchpole.”

“Purpose?”

“Visiting.”

“When will you return?”

“Two hours.”

“Sign here.”

Draco signed.

“Be sure to check in at the Ottery checkpoint,” the man droned. “It’s next to main square.”

In a removed way, Draco felt grateful that the man had only asked the formal questions. In a much more present way, the necessity of such formalities only made him angrier. But he obeyed and upon his apparition in the village of Ottery St Catchpole he signed in, and then wandered about for a full half-hour before he found the correct house, removed a ways from the small village, in the middle of a field.

With a jolt, Draco remembered that it was the middle of the night—and Christmas morning, no less. What was he _thinking_?

But no, there smoke rose from the chimney, and a murky light glimmered in one of the windows. Somebody was awake, probably. Draco stood on the doorstep and raised his hand to knock, and then a terrible thought occurred to him.

What if it was Xenophilius who was awake, and he came to the door? Draco wavered, uncertain. His jacket wasn’t heavy enough for the weather, and his fingers and face were becoming numb. He leaned over the porch railing and peeked through the front window. He could see little beyond the silhouette of a table piled with obscure shapes; the light was coming from a different room. Draco chewed his lower lip, and then fought off the curious tendrils of a viney bush that wrapped itself around his shoulders. He went back to the front door and slowly, softly, knowing it was crazy and rude (and illegal), tried the door handle. It turned and he pushed it open and stepped inside.

A delicious warmth washed over him, and an extremely odd smell. The most obvious smell was a piercing one of spicy chocolate and, oddly, oregano, but there was something unpleasant mixed in as well: something Draco couldn’t place. He stood in a large circular room. A staircase sprouted from the middle and curved up through the ceiling. The light trickled down from above. Draco felt uneasy. Something about this house, even though he’d never been in it before—he’d never even seen it before—and it didn't look anything like his own—felt unpleasantly familiar.

He was just going to check to see who was awake, he told himself, and if it was just Luna he’d go back outside and knock, and if it was just Xenophilius he’d leave without looking back, and if it was Luna and Xenophilius, he’d—do what, exactly?

Draco was still making up his mind about this when he heard voices coming from the lighted room above.

"—and I told him, Luna, I told him straight off – that Potter _was_ telling the truth, and that they would _all_ see it in the end—"

"Yes, Daddy, I know," said Luna calmly. "Why don't you drink your tea now?"

Hardly daring to breath, Draco put one foot on the lower step. It didn't make a sound. The staircase looked out-of-place somehow; he wasn't sure why, and he didn't bother thinking about it. The steps made no noise as he crept up them. His head poked out through the floor in the next room up, and he was greeted by an old mattress with the stuffing coming out of it in front of his face.

"—I would have liked to see his face," said Xenophilius. "When they saw You-Know-Who. Ooohhh, he must have been furious!"

Draco climbed out of the hole and peeked around the staircase into the lighted half of the room. Chaos reigned. It was the oddest set-up Draco had ever seen. A cheery fire burned in the hearth, in front of which Xenophilius stood with his back towards the staircase, identifiable by his puffy white hair. He held a cup of tea. Luna stood a little behind him, her hair tied back, holding a plate of odd, puffy-looking biscuits in the shape of elephants. In a semi-circle around the pair the floor was clear, but stacked along the walls and strewn along the floor were what looked like random beams of wood and splintered boards, a rock pile or two, broken furniture, some pots and pans, rolls of carpet, hundreds of copies of the Quibbler, and what must have been thousands of pages of notes spread everywhere – tacked to the walls, the ceiling, draped over the skull of some monstrous beast mounted on the wall, bound together in messy piles by pieces of frayed twine. Two armchairs and a table with a teapot also sat in the semi-circle.

"Luna," Xenophilius blindly stretched his arm backwards, and Luna stepped into its embrace so he could hug her to his side. "What happened to the mock-up for this month's cover, it was just here!"

"I sent it to Bilius yesterday, Daddy, remember?"

"Oh…" Xenophilius paused for a moment, and then laughed. "Oh, yes, of course, of course – and the title was great big, wasn't it? For my editorial? It'll really grab the readers' eyes this time – biggest thing since Harry Potter –"

"Daddy," said Luna very quietly. "Drink your tea. We're running Bilius's article on Amaroks instead, remember?"

"Amaroks!" Xenophilius exclaimed. He released Luna's shoulder so quickly that she swayed in place. "Who cares about giant, lone wolves in the Arctic in times like this?"

"There have been sightings in the Alps, remember?" Luna patted his shoulder. Xenophilius shrugged her hand off and swung around. Draco ducked behind the corner and flattened himself against staircase.

"Luna, my girl, we can't run the Quibbler without an editorial!"

"You asked me to write some of them, Daddy."

"You, not Bilius!"

"Then I'll write something tonight and send it in the morning, all right? Drink your tea."

"It's cold."

Draco knelt and risked another peek. Xenophilius paced back and forth in front of the fire. Luna stood in the shadows on one side, watching him, still holding that plate of biscuits. She was standing, Draco noticed, on sparkling shards of broken glass. Then – what an odd pattern. There were lots of shards of glass, swept to the side as if to make room for the semi-circle. And right next to Luna's feet, a small pile of broken dishes.

"It wouldn't be cold if you'd drank it when I gave it to you," said Luna reasonably, nothing moving but her eyes as she watched Xenophilius pace. Xenophilius said nothing and she continued, "We can't print that editorial, Daddy. Not yet. The readers aren't ready. Remember? We decided."

"The readers!" exclaimed Xenophilus. He took a large, angry swig of his cold tea. "They aren't ever ready for anything we print, though, are they? Not Harry Potter, not anything…"

"No, Daddy," Luna stepped in front of him and put one hand on his shoulder.

"We need to print it," said Xenophilius, leaning down and looking in her eyes. "We must keep the Quibbler going."

"I know, Daddy." She must have pushed on his shoulder; Xenophilius suddenly collapsed into one of the armchairs.

"We must print it."

"I know."

Draco placed the unpleasant smell. It was something both musty and rotten. It suddenly struck Draco what was out-of-place about the staircase. It was too new.

A gasp. Draco, too late, felt Luna’s gaze on him. She had turned around, and her eyes went wide and horrified. Draco jerked back around the corner, blood rushing to his face and shame flooding him. He had broken into Luna’s house and gotten caught.

Xenophilius mumbled something and Luna said in a strangely cheerful voice, “Just a moment, Daddy, I’ll go get more biscuits—”

Draco slipped down the staircase and made for the door. But he'd only taken a few steps – Luna appeared in front of the door with a soft pop. "Hello, Draco. I didn't know you were coming." She spoke as though this were a mild, but not completely unexpected, surprise.

"Sorry," Draco said. "I'll go." He stepped forward again, but Luna didn't move.

"Did you only come to eavesdrop then?"

"I wasn't—" He had no excuse. "I mean, I came to see you."

"Yes, that's what you were doing last time too."

"What?"

"In the clock tower." Right. Back when she was refusing to speak to him, and he'd overheard her with Ginny. Luna touched her lips with one finger as if a thought had just occurred to her. "Is that how you usually visit your friends?"

"No!" Draco protested.

"Shh," said Luna, glancing up. "Daddy mustn't know you're here."

 _Friends,_ Draco realized. She had said friends. "We're not friends," he said, accidentally, out loud.

"No, I suppose not," Luna agreed. "So why did you come to see me then?" She walked away from the door and took out her wand. The lamps lit up. Draco squinted.

"I just—"

"It's common practice to send an owl first, you see," explained Luna unnecessarily. "Or at least knock. At least if you're visiting in the middle of the night, and especially if you're visiting someone who's not a friend."

Draco just stared at her. Was she making fun of him? "I…didn't…"

"Speak quietly," Luna walked to the stove, which was covered in dishes. "Daddy mustn't know you're here. Do you understand?" The sink was scrubbed clean and also looked new. There were cobwebs on the ceiling, and the walls were covered in dust except for the places that looked patched. Pots and pans with crust lining their insides sat in the middle of the table. Dust was piled in the corners of the room. Draco felt uneasy. There was something wrong. And the house still felt familiar. There was an unstopped vial on the end of the table.

Luna put the kettle on and turned around. "Do you understand?" She repeated. Her gaze went to where he was looking at vial. She went pink and snatched it up, corked it, and stowed it away. Draco smelled something sharp. With a wave of her wand she cleared the cobwebs on the ceiling and, her blush deepening, she went to work scrubbing away the grime on the counters and sweeping the dirty dishes into neat piles.

Luna Lovegood was flustered. Luna Lovegood was never flustered.

_Something's wrong._

Draco mentally kicked himself. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t think—um.” _Get out. Just get out. She doesn’t want you here. Idiot!_ He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out the brown bag. He held it out. “This is for you.” Luna frowned. She twisted her wand in her hands for a few moments before taking it. “Sorry for bothering you,” Draco pushed out and then he turned to leave. He made it to the door and put a hand on the knob.

“Draco?”

He turned around. Luna looked completely confused. She turned the package over in her hands a few times. The pink tinge was still there. “Is this—is—is this a Christmas present?”

“No,” said Draco. “Sort of.” What was the right answer? “Christmas is just coincidental. I saw it and thought of you. That’s all.”

“I’m sorry,” said Luna, looking at the package. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“That’s okay,” said Draco. “I didn’t mean to get you anything. It just sort of—happened.”

Merlin, he sounded like such an idiot. _Get out_ , he told himself again, but he stayed and watched as Luna unfolded the paper. She let out a gasp as she held up the circlet. All traces of being uneasy fled from her face and her smile seemed to make the light in the ceiling shine brighter. “ _Draco!_ ”

Draco got chills all down his spine. He mentally kicked himself again.

Luna placed the circlet on her head and it shrank slightly to fit snugly on top of her curls. The silver-rainbow butterflies launched into the air and spun in tight circles down her waist, around her legs, and up again where they fluttered against her ears and around her head and danced on the headdress’s silver flowers. Luna laughed. She whirled and dug out a silver platter from the pile of dishes, looking at her reflection. She spun around again. Her smile wide and laughing, eyes bright. “I love it! Draco, thank you!”

He had been right. A proud, warm glow spread through his chest. The absurd headdress looked absolutely ethereal on her. The chills disappeared and were replaced by heat in his cheeks. He shrugged, put his hands in his pockets, and took them out again. “You’re welcome.”

The kettle whistled. Luna went to it in a way that was almost a dance. “Just wait until I show Daddy—he’ll be so pleased—oh, Draco, I’ve been so rude, I’m sorry, would you like a biscuit? Some tea?”

Draco backed away, coming to his senses for the first time sense he’d lost his temper at the Manor. “No. I should be going. I don’t want to intrude any longer.”

Luna smiled softly, holding the kettle, and for a moment Draco was transfixed by the butterflies that floated down to rest on the lace below her neck.

“Happy Christmas,” he stuttered, and fled the house, Luna’s "Happy Christmas" coming faintly from behind him.

*

Draco returned to the darkened manor in a daze. He tip-toed up the steps, slipped into his bedroom, bolted the door, and turned on the lights. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin.

" _Mother!_ You scared me!"

Narcissa Malfoy, in her dressing gown but with her hair still styled, sat on his bed with her arms crossed and her knees pressed together. Draco took off his jacket and draped it over a chair, waiting. Narcissa watched him silently. He ran his fingers through his hair and turned to face her. "Do you want something?"

"Where were you?" Narcissa asked, stony-faced.

Draco leaned against his wardrobe and crossed his arms. Two could play this game. "I went on a walk. To clear my head."

"Wonderful. I trust it is now washed clean of all the rubbish you spouted all over your father and myself."

Draco sighed and looked at the ceiling, avoiding her eyes. "Why did you wait up on me?"

"Why did I – ?" Narcissa stood, her eyes flashing fire. "I was _worried,_ Draco! We are surrounded by enemies that would simply jump on the chance to have something "unfortunate" occur near our residence. We are safe inside these premises—once we leave them what little protection we have is gone. You storm out without a word as to where you are going, it's the middle of the night, Christmas morning, you've just all but told us you're ashamed of us—what was I supposed to think?"

"I notice Father's not here," mused Draco, tugging on one shirtsleeve. "Is he not worried?"

"As a matter of fact, no. I told him five minutes after you had gone that you had already returned, but you were tired and went to bed. And I told him that I would ensure you apologize to the pair of us tomorrow morning."

"Well, that'll be a bit embarrassing when I don't do it, won't it?"

Narcissa's hands tightened and her sleeves crinkled. Her eyes followed him as he walked past her to sit on the end of the bed. "Do you know what he said when I told him that?"

"I've no idea." Draco leaned over and unlaced his shoes.

"He stood up for you. He told me I should do no such thing. That you are a man now and I can't just put you over my knee. And he assured me that you would apologize on your own." She paused. Draco might have let it go if she hadn't added, "Your father is made of sterner stuff than you give him credit for."

" 'Sterner stuff' ?" Draco met his mother's eyes and glared. "Because he has the arrogance to act like a martyr when I called him the coward that he is?"

Narcissa sucked in her breath. She strode forward, grabbed the wrist of his hand, and yanked it towards her so that he fell forward, knocked off balance. "Don't. You. _Dare!_ " she hissed, her nails digging into his skin. "Do you have any idea? Do you have any _idea_ how hard it's been?'

"You want to talk about hardship?" Draco exclaimed, pulling back on his arm. She didn't let go. "I'm the one who has face family members of the people who are dead every day! I'm the one living with the children of the people we put in Azkaban! I'm the one with His mark on my arm!"

"The Dark Lord is dead!" Narcissa cried. Draco flinched. She continued, wildly. "I have tried, Draco. I have tried my hardest. I have fought, and cried, I have betrayed, and I have killed and tortured, and I have cowered and begged, I have _prostituted_ myself before the powers of the world to keep our family together. I have _tried_. And you want to tear it apart, you selfish child? Not only do you not want to defend us – do you want to take the club and beat us down at the Ministry's side?

"I can't. I've tried Draco. I can't do it on my own. I can't do it if you fight against me." Narcissa's fingers were white. She let go suddenly and went backwards, looking at her own fingers. Draco stared, mouth dry. Narcissa's hand fell. Her eyes were clear, and yet covered with a film of grief. "I begged you," she whispered. "I begged you not to go back to Hogwarts. I begged you to stay with us. You didn't. Why?"

"I—" His lips were dry. Draco licked them. "I told you why. To finish my education. Restore family pride." The lies felt empty. He had left to escape the manor (to escape them?) and he had the horrible feeling that his mother knew it.

Narcissa smiled without happiness. "Yes, to do the Malfoy name proud. Lucius believes you. I want to. But you're ashamed of us. No – don't deny it, I can see the truth in your eyes. I could see it then and it's still there now." She paused. "Your ring is gone."

Draco closed his eyes. "You noticed."

"We noticed the moment you came back without it, you silly boy. I told Lucius we'd put it in Gringotts for safekeeping. Did someone take it from you?"

"What? No." Draco thought he would probably break the parole agreement before he let anybody forcibly take a Malfoy heirloom from him.

"What did you do with it?"

"I gave it to another student."

"Why?"

Why, indeed? Draco gripped the edge of the bed. "They…needed it more than I did."

"Who?"

"I can't tell you," Draco shook his head and closed his eyes. "I wish I hadn't done it. I regretted it as soon as I had."

"So take it back."

"I can't. It was a gift, Mother, I can't just take it back."

"Then explain to them." Her voice had gone cold and calculated and Draco shuddered – it was the voice she used during the War, when things were falling apart and her orders needed to be obeyed without question or else death might follow. "Explain why you need it back."

"I can't. They don't know it was me who gave it to them. They wouldn't believe me if I told them. And even if they did, I don't know what – " Draco shook his head again and didn't finish.

"Draco." A pause. "Draco look at me." Draco opened his eyes and looked up. Narcissa studied him for a moment. "Please, I need to know. I won't be angry, I promise, but I need to know. … Did you throw it out?"

"No!" Draco protested. "Mother! I gave it to someone! That's the truth!"

Narcissa's eyes lost their focus as she gazed into empty space, her hands loose at her sides. "You leave for Hogwarts," she said softly. "You give away your ring. You're ashamed of us. Sometimes I think you despise us."

Draco shook his head. "Mother –"

"No," said Narcissa, her eyes focusing as she looked at him again. "You have a right to. We've failed you as parents. I've failed you as a mother."

"No," said Draco, standing up. Narcissa put up a hand to prevent him from coming closer.

"I've failed you as a mother," she repeated, matter-of-fact. "I know that. I was meant to keep you safe." Her hand stretched out towards his face and then dropped again. "And instead I led you on a path to destruction. I practically introduced you to it. I’m sorry, darling. I'm sorry."

"That wasn't you," Draco managed through a tight throat. "That was Father."

"It was me," said Narcissa firmly, clasping her hands in front of her.

"No, it _wasn't_. Father was the one who led both of us into it. I know that. _You_ know that.  You tried to pull back, you tried to pull me back when he was pulling me forward." Narcissa shook her head. Draco despaired. " _Why_ do you do that? Why do you insist on sharing the blame with him?"

"I do share the blame with him," she said stubbornly. "His faults are mine."

"You've forgiven him." Draco stepped back, bumping against the bedpost, staring awe-struck at his mother. "You've completely forgiven him. How can you _do_ that?" A surge of anger rushed through his body. "You pretend to have his faults so he has the leisure of feeling martyred? How can he _do_ that to you?"

"Draco," A mist rose into Narcissa's eyes. She shook her head. "Don't. He's my husband. It's my duty to share burdens with him. It's my duty to forgive him. I made that choice when I agreed to marry him. He did the same for me."

Draco couldn't help comparing the sins of his parents. "That hardly seems fair."

"It's called marriage. Fairness isn't the point." Narcissa briefly put her hand to her forehead, then smoothed her hair back. "Listen, Draco, you can't understand and I'm not asking you to. It doesn't matter. And I've—" For the first time, her voice faltered. "I've something else to apologize for."

Draco dreaded to hear the rest. Was it the conspiracy? Was it an extra sin they were hiding? Was it a horrible secret kept locked up in the dark, like the madness Draco tried to keep locked away in the cellar? He braced himself. "What?"

"I love you, Draco." Instead of regaining her composure as usual, Narcissa's voice broke. "But not enough, it seems." Her hand went to her mouth, and her eyes closed, and she hugged her other arm around her middle, as if struggling to contain a stabbing pain.

Draco shrank against the bedpost. "…Mother?"

After a long moment of struggle, Narcissa's fingers slid down just far enough so she could continue speaking. "It's taken me too long to come to this. But I can see – I realize – " She struggled for words. His mother was at a loss for words. Draco, for the first time this evening, became truly frightened. Narcissa took a deep, slightly shaky breath, and opened her eyes. Now both of her arms hugged her middle. But she spoke without a tremor, without hesitation, and with the strong, impersonal voice of someone who has made an impersonal, logical decision. "You're unhappy, and you're angry, and you are right to be. I am sorry. I am sorry I have not done this sooner. I am sorry I did not do this the moment the Dark Lord fell. You owe your father and myself nothing. We owe you a great debt. We are…poison to you."

" _Mother!_ "

She lifted a hand as if casting a spell – or breaking one. "You are free to go. We claim no hold over you. I give my blessing, however little it is worth, in whatever you do. I understand. Go where you wish, do what you wish, have a new beginning far from here." Draco's mouth went dry. _What_? "You owe me nothing, I know. We are already in your debt. But I must ask one more thing of you – just one more thing of you, and you never have to do anything for me again." Narcissa's voice constricted and her arms clamped more firmly around her middle and her gaze dropped, the formality dropped, and she whispered in a begging voice of the broken, "Don't tell your father."

Shock numbed Draco to his core. "No," he said.

Narcissa closed her eyes. "Please. Not for him. For me. I'll make up a story. He'll believe me if you don't contradict it. He would crumble if he knew."

"No," Draco repeated, guilt melting in his throat and flooding his eyes. He grabbed his mother and pulled her to him. "No, Mum, you've got it all wrong. I'm not leaving you. _Merlin._ I'm not leaving."

Narcissa stood stiff in his arms for an unsteady moment, and then she put her arms around him and rested her head against his.

"I'm sorry," Draco whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Mum." He was an _idiot_ not to realize. That she had been the sole prop holding Lucius up, that she herself was crumbling under the weight of their collective shame and humiliation and mental turmoil. That she not only had to keep them together, but put on the appearance of everything being fine. And all the while fighting the suffocating fear that their only son was about to abandon them. And she couldn't even turn to Lucius for help – it was she who felt she had to protect him from the truth.

"I'm sorry." Draco said again. If his mother could do all of that and still survive, the least he could do was give a false apology to the husband that she refused to leave.

Draco meant to comfort her, but his walls dissolved into dust as he suddenly found himself weeping on his mother's shoulder as she held him and stroked his hair and murmured comforting words in _his_ ear and Draco, filled to bursting with grief, nearly told her.

_The Dark Lord is dead and my mark doesn't know it. Everyone hates me and I hate everyone. I push away the only ones who try to stand me. I can't help it. I can't stop it. I gave the ring to a Mudblood and I can't take it back. They are constantly prying and plucking and mocking no matter what I do. The Ministry is out to get me. And Potter says there's some sort of danger to you. To all of us maybe. I don't know if I can trust him. And - He's still here. He still whispers to me. I'm friendless. I can't sleep. I dream about Him and death all the time unless I drug myself. I don't know what to do. I'm so confused. I hate Him and I hate the Order. I hate the Ministry and I think I might hate my own father. I hate Potter and I hate the Mudblood who has my ring. For some reason Luna Lovegood doesn't hate me._

_I don't know what I believe anymore._

But he bit on his tongue until it bled and choked back the words. He would not burden his mother further. She was his father's fortress—and so Draco had to be hers. _(But was he even capable of that when she was the one currently comforting him?)_ So he gripped her tight and wept in her hair and, in the midst of this flood, wondered if she was weeping also.

*

It took Draco several minutes of looking in the mirror and rehearsing his "apology" in a whisper before he could leave his bedroom prepared, his bag with the gifts inside over his shoulder. (He'd put an extension charm on it so the walking stick would fit.) At least, he thought he was prepared. But as he reached out to open the door to the dreaded sitting room, it swung wide and left his fingers hanging in midair, and his heart nearly stopped. Lucius stood there very straight in a deep blue waistcoat, one hand on the knob, the other at his side. Father and son stood staring at each other, both faces carefully neutral and stern, neither one seeming to know what to say.

"Good morning," said Lucius at last.

Draco pointed behind his father. "Is mother…?"

Lucius was the first to break eye contact. He glanced over his shoulder. "She went to the kitchens with the house-elf. I was just…" Lucius trailed off, as if forgetting what it was he was about to do. "Come in," he said at last, stepping out of the way.

Draco sidled past him, determinedly not looking towards the cellar staircase. He felt his heartbeat throbbing in his arm, despite the white light streaming in from the windows and the two small Christmas trees sitting on either side of the fireplace, covered in winking stars, golden crystals, and enchanted icicles. The door shut behind him. Draco's hopes that Lucius had left were dashed when he heard slow footsteps behind him.

"You've not eaten, I suppose?" Lucius inquired as Draco put one hand on the back of one high-backed armchair in front of the lit fireplace. Draco shook his head. The popping of the fire seemed to drill into his head in the silence. "There's things there." Lucius spoke again. Draco glanced to the side. His father indicated a plate piled with pastries. He, too, had his hand on the back of one of the chairs. Draco immediately removed his own and put it in his pocket. He fixed his gaze back on the flames.

_Come back, Mother. Come back._

He had not been alone with his father since…Draco's stomach flipped when he realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd been alone with Lucius. Not since the trials, certainly. But not after the Battle of Hogwarts either. And before then, had he and Lucius even directly addressed each other on subjects other than the war after Lucius returned from Azkaban?

Lucius was speaking again. "—bright this morning. The house-elf keeps opening them up."

"I asked her to." Draco studied the reflection of the firelight in the icicles.

"Ah." Lucius trailed his hand along the back and arm of the chair as he circled to its front and sat down. "Well, then, if you prefer it." Draco glanced at him, and then immediately regretted doing so because Lucius was still looking at him. He sat very straight—almost prim—in the chair and he inhaled loudly through his nose, lifting his chin.

Draco grabbed the back of his own chair again, worrying it with his palm, squeezing the lumps and stitching in the hard leather upholstery. "I wanted—" Draco coughed. "I wanted to apologize about what I said last night. I didn't mean any of it." He forced himself to look into his father's eyes. Lucius looked expectant, like he thought Draco would go on. Draco had no plans of doing any such thing, and after several awkward moments, Lucius turned away.

"Well," he said. "Outbursts are only to be expected in these situations." He paused. "Your mother is the most incredible witch I've ever known, you know."

Draco blinked. "I know."

Lucius sounded cross. "Do you? I met her when I was twelve years old, and in all that time I've never known her to do a single thing remotely cowardly."

It took him a moment, but Draco realized why his father was telling him this. "I apologized to her last night," he said quickly.

"Did you?" Lucius crossed his legs and picked up a cup of tea. "Good."

Draco also sat down. He took a croissant and picked at the crust without eating it. _You met when you were twelve?_ he wanted to ask, but didn't. It made sense, of course. He knew his parents had met at Hogwarts, and of course they had both been in Slytherin. And even though Lucius still sat there like an offended aristocrat, even though he still made no much-deserved apologies himself, the defense Lucius offered for Narcissa made Draco feel slightly less angry with him; his own false apology more palatable. At least his father wasn't _completely_ incapable of thinking about someone other than himself.

"Oh, Draco, you're awake." Narcissa had entered the room without either of them hearing. The tension, while it did not disappear (it never completely disappeared), lessened considerably. Narcissa leant down and, brushing his hair back, kissed his temple. "Happy Christmas, darling."

"Happy Christmas," Draco returned as Narcissa kissed his father. Flakes from his croissant sprinkled the hardwood beneath his shoes. The scene felt so completely _normal_ that it made him uneasy. An especially large flake floated down and rested just between his feet. As Draco watched it, the unbidden picture of a blood-slicked floor forced itself into his mind.

"Would you like to open this now?"

Draco looked up, thankful to be pulled from the memory. Narcissa held a long, thin package in her arms, smiling, and looking – Merlin's beard, she looked _eager_. Her smile was light and free instead of heavy, and it extended into her eyes.

But of course. This was probably the first day in a long while she hadn't had the anxiety that Draco was getting ready to abandon them. (Draco wrestled back a wave of intense guilt.)

Lucius hadn't moved from his earlier position; he still looked at the fire, holding a cup of tea. He said tonelessly, "He's not eaten yet, Narcissa."

"Oh," Narcissa looked from Draco's face to his hands to the platter on the table and back to his face. "Well, whenever you're ready, darling."

"I'm not…" Draco felt very confused as he finally looked at the package. "…exactly hungry, Mother, is that a broomstick?"

"The packaging does make it obvious," said Narcissa with a small laugh. _Merlin's beard,_ when was the last time he'd heard his mother laugh? (Lucius didn't seem to notice. He said nothing.)

Draco somehow couldn't get his mind around it. "You got me a broomstick?"

"Of course we got you a broomstick. We've gotten you a broomstick every year since you were five. Well – almost." Narcissa's smile twisted a bit and she glanced away. She meant last year; last year, Christmas almost hadn't existed. The only present any of them had gotten was Luna's singing, and that had very nearly turned nasty. And that hadn't even been on Christmas day itself (she had gotten her dates wrong).

Somehow, even with all of his own preparations, it had never occurred to Draco that his parents would give him something. Well, _parents_ probably wasn't the correct word; it was probably _parent_ , singular, given how Lucius was being even more sullen than usual and not taking any notice of the proceedings.

"Um…" Draco set the manhandled croissant back down on the platter and held out his hands. "Sure. I mean, yes, I'd like to open it now."

Narcissa's smile returned (not quite as bright as a few moments ago) and she handed the package to him, then returned to sit by Lucius in her own chair. As Draco untied the string, he watched her in his peripheral vision as she leaned across the gap between her and Lucius' seat and took the tea from him, set it aside, and took his hand. Lucius made no move to help or hinder any of this. His fingers curled a little around her hand, reflexively, but he continued looking at the fire.

Draco pulled back the wrapping and examined the _Nimbus 2003._ He couldn't help but smile slightly as he ran his fingers down its dark brown, polished wood. He would have to try to find an excuse to fly sometime soon. "It's great. Thank you." Then, before either of his parents could say a word, he added, "I've got something for you too." He pulled the wrapped wine out of his bag and handed it to Narcissa.

Narcissa looked taken aback. It wasn't as though Draco had never gotten his parents presents before – but perhaps, like him, she'd forgotten to consider the possibility. "I…thank you." She freed the bottle from its wrappings and her eyes went side. " _Draco!_ How did you _ever_ …"

"I'm persistent." Draco grinned as Narcissa ran her fingers over the label.

"Look, Lucius," she prodded, grabbing his wrist and shaking his arm a bit as she held out the wine.

Lucius stirred and glanced at the bottle. Then he uncrossed his legs and took it from her. "But that's…"

"I know!" Narcissa beamed at Draco.

Draco then stood up and pulled the box out of his bag that contained the walking stick. "And this is for you," he said, holding it out.

Lucius looked up and blinked. "For me?" he repeated. If it hadn't been Lucius, the phrase and the surprise would have been comical. Narcissa took back the wine and Draco pushed the box into his father's hands. Draco sat back down as Lucius lifted the lid. He watched Narcissa's face.

_Please let this work. Please let this work._

Lucius lifted the walking stick out with both hands. Narcissa stared. She seemed to have frozen. Draco hardly dared to breathe. Lucius was expressionless as he examined the stick from top to bottom. His right hand ran along the length of the stick, curled around the serpent's head, and pulled, unsheathing the wand with a sudden movement. Narcissa gasped. Lucius's chin lifted and he inhaled loudly again as he held up the wand.

"Draco," Narcissa whispered. "He's not—we aren't supposed to—"

"This wand has been in our house since before the War started," Lucius interrupted her. "Technically in my possession." He re-sheathed it and set the end of the walking stick on the ground, balancing it upright with his hand over the top. "So I have not obtained a new wand."

"He's right," Draco agreed. "And besides, if he doesn't use it—"

"They won't care about that, you silly men!" Narcissa twisted her hands around the wine bottle. Draco's heart sank. This wasn't how he had envisioned this. "If they find out we have it—"

"They won't." Lucius stood. With a little flick of his arm, his hand changed position from gripping the head to gripping the middle so that he held it off the floor. "What's important is that we have it. It's a proud family heirloom. Draco understands this." With that Lucius finally made eye contact with his son, and Draco knew this was as close to a "thank you" as he was going to get.

But Narcissa shook her head. "It's a terrible risk."

"No more terrible than having the wand at all." Lucius leaned down and kissed his wife's forehead. "Not to worry, my dear, it will go back to the attic with our old school things. But we will be better for knowing it's here." A strange expression came over Narcissa's face. She looked up at Lucius with soft eyes and stopped protesting.

"Very well then," she said, and she looked at Draco and inclined her head. She understood who the gift had really been for. Draco returned the gesture.

"We have something else for you," Lucius announced, reaching into his waistcoat pocket and pulling out a long envelope.

"What?" Draco sat up straight. "What is it?" Lucius handed him the envelope without answering. Draco read the address, then looked up at both of them. "This is from Gringotts." Narcissa also stood up. Lucius put his arm around her. Nerves tightened in Draco's middle. What had they done? He slid his thumb under the flap and pulled out the contents. A formal embossed letter was in the envelope, but Draco didn't need to read it. Because a small object fell from the envelope and into his palm.

It was a small golden key.

"It's," said Lucius as Draco stared. "We've. That is." He looked at his wife for help.

"We've made you primary holder of the estate," Narcissa explained. Draco could only stare. "It's valid as of this morning. The vault and its contents, the property—"

"No," Draco rasped through a dry mouth. "You can't. We shouldn't." He looked up. "I'm not ready for this!"

Lucius, for some reason, looked mortally offended. "Don't be absurd."

"You're ready, darling," said Narcissa. "You've proven that."

"No," Draco repeated. "If anybody should be the primary holder, it's you!" He half-expected Lucius to protest this statement in some way (either verbally or through another martyred look), but he didn't seem to mind Draco's insinuation that his mother was more equipped to handle their estate than his father currently was.

"Draco," said Narcissa firmly. "It's been decided. You can, of course, come to us with questions, but we decided the final decisions should lie with you. Your future is the uncertain one, and all the tools you may need should be at your disposal."

Draco didn't know what to say. A great pain suddenly went through his heart. They must have set this up weeks ago – and yet Narcissa had still come to him last night to set him free from all responsibility he had towards them. She had given him the family fortune and the permission to flee with it.

Yes, his parents were still cowards (at least, Lucius was). Yes, they didn't protest unfair treatment. This transfer of power only made it all too obvious that they had given up on themselves.

But it also made it obvious that they hadn't given up on him.

"I don't know what to say," he said at last.

Lucius stirred. "What's our house-elf's name again?"

"Nippy," Draco and Narcissa answered simultaneously.

"Nippy!" called Lucius. The house-elf appeared instantly and bowed low in front of Lucius. She was dressed in a tea-towel stitched with holly and mistletoe for the occasion. Lucius clicked the walking stick on the floor. "My son has just inherited you. You answer to him first now."

"Yes, Senior Master Malfoy!" Nippy spun around and bowed to Draco. "Does Master Malfoy have any orders for Nippy?" Before he could answer, the front door rang.

All three Malfoys froze. All three were thinking the same thing. _Who would call on Christmas morning?_ And the answer came to all three of them. _Only someone with bad intentions._

"Nippy," said Narcissa. "Take this walking stick and hide it."

"No," said Draco. Nippy, who had already started towards Lucius, stopped and looked over her shoulder at Draco. "They'll be suspicious if we answer our own door. You two hide it. I'll go down with Nippy."

His parents didn't seem to like this plan, but they agreed to it. Draco stood just out of sight downstairs as Nippy answered.

"Yes?"

"Hello, Miss. Is Draco home?"

Draco stepped out into the line of sight at the door, unable to believe his ears.

"Well…" Nippy began.

" _Draco!_ " A figure of sparkling silver, tangled hair, and lavender flung themselves at him.

"Merlin!" Draco staggered as Luna collided into him, her arms around his neck.

"You've no idea—" she was saying. "—happiest morning in ages—"

Draco's arms hung at his sides. He looked at Nippy for help, but she stood there letting in the cold air, looking just as surprised as he. "Close the door?" he managed. Luna smelled like strawberries, and her hair was in his face, and a silver butterfly threatened to land on his nose. There was snow on her coat, melting through his shirt. He tried to dislodge himself but in the slight struggle he only succeeded in turning sideways. Luna was still babbling on.

"—couldn't be happier—he forgets these sort of things, you see—then he's guilty and angry—but he forgets why—and of course there's me as well—"

His parents came down the stairs. They both stopped and stared and Draco was suddenly conscious of every soft curve and cranny of Luna's body pressed against his. He reached up and grabbed her hands, struggling to control the heat threatening to rise into his face. "Luna," he said quietly, and much more calmly than he felt. "Could you let go of me, please?"

Luna released him and stepped back. Her cheeks and nose were tinged with pink and she smiled up at him. "I told him he'd given it to me—is that all right?"

"What?" Draco rubbed the back of his neck and avoided eye contact with her.

"Daddy. He loved seeing me like this, you see, and he wanted to know where I'd gotten it. I would have told him, but—well, if he knew it would upset him, so I told him he'd given it to me, because he would have been devastated if he'd realized he'd forgotten. Was that all right?"

Draco only half-understood what she was saying; he could still smell strawberries, and his parent's gazes felt like prodding fingers. He muttered, "I don't care."

"But anyway, thank you. I came over with something for you." She held out a tin box the size of a potions textbook that Draco hadn't noticed until now.

"What?" said Draco again. His parents hadn't moved from their place on the staircase.

"A Christmas present, since you gave me one. I baked them this morning."

"I told you it wasn't a Christmas present," Draco protested, not taking the box.

"Well, then, this isn't a Christmas present either. It's just a present that I happen to be giving you on Christmas." Luna again offered him the box, this time with both hands.

Draco, feeling extremely foolish but unsure why, accepted the box. Luna turned. "Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. Sorry to be bursting in on you like this."

"Good morning, Miss Lovegood," said Narcissa coolly. She remained on the stairs. "Your father is well, I trust?"

"Very well, thank you," said Luna, as if exchanging pleasantries with the friendliest of neighbors. "And I hope everything is well with you?"

"Yes, it is."

Lucius said nothing and he looked very much like he wanted the conversation to be over. Draco, for once, agreed with his father. "Shouldn't you be going?" he asked rudely. "It's Christmas, you should be home with your father, shouldn't you?"

"Yes," Luna agreed. "He's expecting me back. Happy Christmas, Draco. Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy." She waved and practically pranced out the door, the headdress's ivy swinging against her back.

Draco stood fingering the metal box, conscious of his two parents still standing side-by-side and looking at him. "Sorry about that," he said at last. "She's a bit…unpredictable."

"Did you see what she was wearing?" Narcissa commented. "She's highly…eccentric."

"She's not so bad." Draco defended her without thinking.

"I thought," Lucius said suddenly. "You wrote that you two weren't associating?"

"We haven't been," Draco said, opening the tin and eyeing the odd-smelling puffy brown biscuits within. "Not until recently."

"What did you give her?" asked Narcissa curiously.

"Nothing." Draco pulled out one of the biscuits. "Just a trinket I picked up when I was out Christmas shopping. Didn't cost me hardly anything."

Nippy came to his side. "Would Master Malfoy like me to take those?" Draco handed her the box and she disappeared with it.

"That's very – curious," said Lucius. "Very odd. Have you considered –"

"Lucius," said Narcissa, and she put her hand on his shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Draco pretended to be interested in a painting of the Canary Islands on the wall, turning the biscuit over in his hand. After the whispering was finished, Narcissa added, "Well, Draco, she is very…nice, and we think that's very prudent of you."

"Prudent?" Draco repeated blankly.

"The Lovegoods," Lucius explained helpfully. "If a little strange – are still, after all, technically purebloods, though they are..." He gave an unpleasant, grimacing smile. "...not one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

"But if she's willing to be friendly with you," continued Narcissa, "And if she makes you happy—"

Draco dropped his hand. "You think…wait, you think I like Luna? And you think I like her because of her _blood_?"

"Darling, we can't discount it. The Greengrasses are probably still the most beneficial choice, but it's entirely uncertain whether anything with them will work out. And it would also be beneficial to be officially bound with a family that is friends with Potter."

"Greengrasses?" Draco gripped the bridge of his nose for a moment. "Potter? Wait. Are you saying – _Mother._ " He spluttered. "First of all, I'm not walking around trying to manipulate pureblood witches into marrying me. Besides being ludicrous, that's just pathetic. For me," he added quickly when Lucius flinched. "For me, I mean, it's pathetic. Manipulating witches. If I was doing it. Which I'm _not._ And—and besides, Luna's too clever not to see through that. If I was doing it, which I'm not. Besides, her father can't stand the sight of me. We imprisoned her in our cellar for god's sake. And the same goes for other pureblood witches. And anyway, second of all, I don't – I haven't – Luna's blood is _completely_ beside the point."

Lucius and Narcissa glanced at each other. "It can't be, darling," said Narcissa gently. "Not if you are continue the line."

Draco was unconsciously backing away. "Well, what if I don't—" Blood began to pound in his temples, and then he stopped at the alarmed look on Narcissa's face.  "Look," he said helplessly. "I know I'm supposed to continue the line, all right?" _I'm not abandoning the family, Mum._ "And if you get a nice arrangement with the Greengrasses, I'll be thrilled. Really. All right? But I just don't – I don't want to talk about it. Not now. I don't want to fight. Can we just not talk about it?"

Lucius looked like he wanted to speak again but Narcissa interrupted his half-formed thought. "All right, Draco, we don't have to talk about it. But if I may ask…" she nodded towards the front door. "What exactly are your intentions towards Lovegood?"

"I don't have any," Draco said immediately and with force. "She just doesn't know how to leave well enough alone." When Narcissa frowned at him, looking unconvinced, he took a determined bite of the biscuit, and then choked on the flavor of oregano and spearmint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My inspi juices are still pumping like mad, so I'll have another update next week.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reasons I can't pinpoint, I have a very, very hard time writing Ginny. If she's OOC, I'm very sorry, and if you have any suggestions I will gladly hear them.

_Draco lay awake, his hand with his wand resting across his chest, listening to the wind outside his bedroom window. Christmas was three days from now. The thought of it hardened the pit of dread that lay perpetually in his stomach. The thought of Christmas made him nostalgic and terrified. He wanted Christmas to just be Christmas – a break from the constant dread that his arm might begin to burn at any moment and he would have to emerge from his hiding place. But at the same time, he knew that any recognition that Christmas might get would only be horrific—not to mention it might scar every other Christmas to come._

**_If I ever make it to another Christmas._ **

_Draco sat up and got out of bed. He was still dressed. The Manor was quiet. Maybe he could escape outside for a few minutes. The middle of the night was the best time for being alone – most Death Eaters were either sleeping or off performing some terrible task. The middle of the night was also, unfortunately, the most likely time to be broken by screams – the prisoners in the cellar were Bellatrix's favorite form of entertainment. Even if she performed more silent forms of torture on them, the rumors of what had happened would still leak through the Manor like poison. Each piece of news was like another dagger in Draco and his parents. They didn't want to know what happened in their own cellar to an old wandmaker from whom they had all purchased their wands, or even to a goblin, and most of all they didn't want to know what happened to an innocent pureblood schoolgirl._

_He crept downstairs, the only sounds his own breathing and footsteps and the occasional odd creak from the Manor. He jumped whenever this happened, but he made it halfway down the staircase without seeing anyone. He froze at the sound of footsteps that weren't his own; they and two shadows passed on below him. One shadow hissed, "You sure you can?"_

_"What will they care?" said the other one with a small laugh. Draco's hand tightened on his wand. He hated most of the Death Eaters, naturally—but the snatcher Scabior held a special place of loathing in his heart. "It's not worse than what the old girl's been doing to her, I can promise you that. Besides, she's bat-shite crazy. She's singing down there right now."_

_"So where are we going, then? We just passed it."_

_"The kitchens, of course. It's never as fun without firewhisky, eh?"_

_Draco waited until they'd passed. He didn't want to puzzle out what they were talking about; he wanted to go outside. So he pushed the conversation to the side and slipped the rest of the way down the stairs. But as he stole past the cellars, a soft voice warbled up from beneath his face._

_"Peace is here,_  
_Fear is gone,_  
_Love has come,  
_ _Hope has dawned."_

_Draco stopped. And the pieces fell into place. Oh, bloody hell. Scabior was talking about Luna Lovegood, and Scabior had one certain personality trait that made him infamous. Draco wavered, feeling sick to his stomach. He wanted to escape outside—just run far away, and stay far away until it was over. Oh, god, why hadn't he stayed upstairs? Draco pressed his palms to his eyes. And how would his parents react, when they heard? Draco shuddered at how the atmosphere in the house would change. He had a hard time walking past the cellars already; would he ever manage it again knowing what was about to happen? Would his parents? The drinking was already getting out of hand—_

_"He will be our Sanctuary; let our hearts not be afraid."_

_Bloody hell. It was her singing that was setting him off; the more innocence there was to ruin, the more dangerous Scabior became. Maybe if she stopped… Draco swung around, opened the cellar door. The singing ceased immediately. He hurried down the stairs and hissed as loudly as he dared, "Shut up."_

_A pause. "Malfoy? Is that you?"_

_"It doesn't matter if it's me or not. Shut up."_

_"It's a Christmas carol."_

_"Christmas isn't here yet!" Draco snapped. "And I'm telling you, stop your bloody singing or you're going to regret it!"_

_"Oh. I thought tonight was Christmas Eve. I must have lost count."_

_"Yes, you must have. And if you don't stop singing, I'll make you."_

_"Don't you like singing?"_

_"No! And neither would you, if—"_

_The door swung open again and Draco cringed. "Oh, what have we here?" Scabior lit up his wand and shone it in Draco's face. "Having fun?"_

_He could still leave. He wouldn't have changed anything. Except – now both Luna and Ollivander (and the goblin) would know that he could have tried to stop it, and he didn't. And his parents would know he could have and he didn't. **Bloody hell.**_

_"Get lost, Scabior," Draco muttered._

_"No, I don't think I shall," said Scabior easily, coming down the stairs. He stood next to Draco and looked in through the gate. Ollivander was huddled in a far corner, only barely lifting his head to see what was going on. The goblin was nowhere to be seen…he must be crouching somewhere in the shadows, behind pillars, something. Luna stood in the middle of the room, dressed in baggy, grimy overalls, blinking at the pair of them. Scabior purred, "Aren't you the pretty one?"_

_"You have no business down here, Scabior." Draco grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back._

_Scabior shook him off and laughed. "And who says I don't?"_

_Draco's knees shook. "I do," he said, feebly._

_Scabior snorted. He put his free hand on the gate and ran his fingers across it as he leered at Luna. "You need a change of clothing, sweetheart." Luna seemed to understand what was happening; she wrapped her arms around herself and took a step back. Scabior turned to Draco, whose head began to pound. "Don't expect me to let you hang around and watch. Be a sport and take care of Ollivander, would you?"_

_The fear was building. Draco felt dizzy and suddenly wondered when he'd last eaten. "No. Stop."_

_Scabior scowled. "Bellatrix don't mind, do she? She's a blood traitor."_

_Draco suddenly got angry. Everybody within the Dark Lord's circle was constantly threatening him or his parents; everyone outside of them was doing the same. He was a **Death Eater,** handpicked by the Dark Lord himself. He was sick of being helpless, and he was going to be damned if some Snatcher-nobody tried to push him around in his own house. Draco snarled, "She's a pureblood, you idiot, and she's in my manor."_

_Scabior smirked at him. "Your manor, is it? I thought it was the Dark Lord's manor."_

_Draco's heart stopped, but only for an instant. "Exactly. And she's the Dark Lord's prisoner, not your plaything."_

_"We have her so the Quibbler behaves, not so she can be treated like some sort of pure princess," said Scabior lazily. He waved his wand at the door's lock._

_Draco shoved him back. "I'm warning you, Scabior, back off. Go find a Mudblood if you must. Or maybe I'll call Him here right now?"_

_Scabior hissed through his teeth. "You wouldn't dare. You Malfoys are all alike. Cowards and weaklings."_

_Ah-ha. Scabior had made a mistake. "And yet I've still His mark, haven't I?" Draco pulled back his sleeve and help up his arm, moving it close to Scabior's face so he was forced to lean back. "What does that make you? What've you got, Scabior? A winning personality? Do you think that'll be enough to save you when the Dark Lord comes calling and sees you defiling a pureblood witch?"_ _Scabior looked uncertain. Draco moved towards him, and Scabior stepped back. "Get out, and don't come back here unless you have something of value."_

_Scabior cursed at him, but then he retreated back up the stairs._

_"Thank you," said Luna softly from behind him. "But you really shouldn't have told him to go rape someone else."_

_Draco pretended he hadn't heard and also left, slamming the cellar door behind him._

*

Ginny Weasley had never been so relieved to leave for Hogwarts in her life. She would have felt more guilty at being so relieved to go, but—well, she could have stayed at Hogwarts for Christmas, but she had chosen to go home, hadn't she? She had had to recruit her dad and—strangely—George to help her get out of her mum's hugs and head to the station earlier than was normal. After all, she was the only Weasley at Hogwarts now…getting out the door shouldn't be chaotic. But tears and goodbyes had replaced the search for lost bags and last-minute packing, and they were poor substitutes.

Because she arrived at the station so early, she was one of the first students to get on board the train. She chose an empty compartment near the back, hoping people would leave her alone for a bit. Leaning back and putting her feet up on the opposite bench, Ginny stared out the window at the brick wall of the platform. She did not get her wish. Only a few minutes later, as more students, started arriving, the door of the compartment slid open.

"Hello, Ginny." Luna sat down opposite her, beside her feet, her face practically glowing.

Ginny did her best to smile—it was easier seeing the happiness of her friend. "Hi, Luna. How was your holiday?"

Luna put her bag under her seat. "A lot better than I thought it was going to be, actually." She peered into Ginny's face. "But you cried a lot over yours, didn't you? Your soul looks tired."

How could Luna _always_ tell these things? Ginny nodded, feeling even more exhausted. "I'd rather not talk about it. How about," she took her feet down from the seat. "you tell me what's got you looking so happy?"

The glow in Luna's face increased. "Well, Daddy and I went to the coast for New Years."

"You _what_? Luna, that's—that's great! What brought that on? I thought you weren't going anywhere."

"We weren't." Luna twirled her wand through her hair as she leaned her head back, eyes unfocusing. "But he's been ever so much better, and he announced Christmas morning that he _insisted_ on it. We had so much fun. We didn't argue about the Quibbler once; he even let Bilius write a guest editorial, and he didn't mind publishing the Amaroks as the main story."

Ginny couldn't help it. "What are Amaroks again?"

"Monstrous, clever, solitary wolves." Luna loved explaining these things. "They have been spotted in the Alps in France recently. Near Grenoble. Anyway…Daddy was so happy the entire week, and so was I."

This was the beautiful thing about being with Luna; her fascination with the world and her timeless sense of joy (almost) never failed to lift Ginny's spirits. "What brought this on? Did he enjoy those—what were they? Rosemary and peppermint cookies?" Outside the compartment, even more students were passing and the noise level was getting louder.

"Oregano and spearmint," corrected Luna. "I don't even remember. No, it wasn't them, it was…I received a gift, actually. A…well, he was calling it a diadem, but it's not really a diadem. But he loved it even more than I do, I think. He saw me and he told me I looked like my mum, and he apologized for not being better to me. But I told him he gave it to me and he lit up and started going on and on about my mum and how I could be the new Rowena Ravenclaw, and then he started talking about the places we used to go for the holidays every year—and then he decided we should go to the coast."

"Wow." Ginny's head spun. Could the solution to Luna's problems really be that simple? She couldn't stop a prickle of jealousy. "Do you think it'll last?"

"Well," Luna looked down at her hands as she twisted her wand in her palms. "Probably not. But it's a step in the right direction, isn't it?"

"It is," Ginny agreed. "Who gave it to you? Bilius?"

"No." Luna hesitated. "It's a bit strange, actually. You see—"

The compartment door slid open. Ginny looked up and a flash of irrepressible grief shot through her. Draco Malfoy stood there, one hand on the door, the other carrying his handbag. He made eye contact with Ginny and froze.

"Oh, hello, Draco," said Luna, as if this were the most normal occurrence in the world. Anger rose up in Ginny. How dare he show his face in here? Hadn't Luna made it clear last term that she did _not_ want anything to do with him?

"Can I help you?" Ginny asked tersely.

"Um," said Malfoy. His fingers shifted on his bag and his shoulders twitched. "Hi, Luna."

"Hello," Luna repeated patiently.

"Good holiday?" he asked.

"Yes, very," said Luna.

His gaze shifted to Ginny and she increased her glare. "Good…holiday…Weasley?" he said slowly, seeming to force out every word.

"No, as a matter of fact, no thanks to you," Ginny snapped. Malfoy flinched, as if expecting a curse. "Anything else you want to know?"

"I…" Malfoy hesitated, his gaze darting back and forth between the two of them. Ginny could feel Luna looking at her. "No," he said abruptly, then he jerked around like a skittish rabbit and hurried out of Ginny's line of sight down the train. The door banged shut behind him.

Ginny was startled out of some of her anger. "What was that about?"

Luna was still looking at her. "What was that about?" she repeated. Ginny knew she was not talking about Malfoy.

"I said I don’t want to talk about it."

"I remember."

The train began to move. Ginny gave up. "It's Mum," she admitted. "Or, Ron. Charlie, too, I suppose. It's…a bit of everyone, actually."  She was silent a moment.

"Fred?"                             

Ginny nodded. "I thought we were getting better. Over letters. The letters were getting better. Silly of me, I guess. I'm glad I can miss Fred and George's birthday at Hogwarts. That sounds awful, doesn't it? But it's—horrible. The first few days were all right, I suppose. But Mum kept crying. Fred was just everywhere, in ways you didn't expect. And then Charlie blew up at everybody, and then _he_ started crying and set Mum and Dad off both, and Ron was sulky, and I just wanted _out_."  The more she spoke, the easier it became to speak. "We were trying to do things the right way. You know, remembering Fred, telling stories, doing whatever it is you're supposed to do—and it all just kept going horribly _wrong._ I was miserable the entire time. _Everybody_ was miserable the entire time. And poor Harry was there in the middle of it, and he kept trying to comfort me, and Ron, and I thought I was doing all right until I blew up at _Harry_." There were tears in the back of Ginny's mind, but they didn't seem willing to escape here, now, in this train compartment with Hogwarts students just outside the doors. (Actually, none of them had passed for quite some time, which was odd, even though they were at the end of the train.) "And you know it's not Harry's fault—none of it—but you can just _tell_ he feels guilty anyway, and just being with us was making him feel more guilty, which only makes _me_ feel guilty because I want to make sure he _doesn't_. And then of course there's George. And there are other families who have lost so much more than we have, and I feel like we haven't got the right to be like this, just imagine what George is going through, or what poor Susan Bones is going through."

Luna rested her hand on Ginny's ankle. It was such an odd placement for a gesture of comfort, the ankle. But that was Luna. Ginny had her arms crossed hard over her chest and she watched the landscape whip by. "But it's not like we've lost just Fred. It's like Fred was connecting all of us and now that he's gone we're _all_ falling apart."

Some noise started outside their compartment. Luna said nothing for a long time, then she said softly, "It was like that for me and Daddy when my mum died, too. It wasn't like we weren't close before, but we had to figure out how to relate to each other once she was gone. It changed us entirely. It changed how we saw each other. I felt guilty about it too for a bit." She waited another moment. "How is George?"

Ginny pondered this. "He's okay. I think. I don't know. I can't believe it, but…he was the best out of all of us. I don't think he lost his temper once. He was quiet, but he always hugged Mum when she started crying, and he kept trying to comfort the rest of us. I don't know. It scares me a bit, because I think maybe he's hiding it, but maybe…maybe he really is okay." Ginny sighed. "Anyway. It was a nightmare and I'm glad to be getting out of it for another term. Is that horrible of me?"

"No." Luna reached forward and patted her leg below the knee, making Ginny smile. "I'm sorry it was hard."

Strange that it was the simplicity of her statement, rather than reliving the nightmare by repeating it out loud, was what made Ginny's eyes fill with tears. Luna reached under her seat and pulled out a handkerchief from her bag. "I'm fine." Ginny waved it away, focusing on blinking the tears back. "I don’t want to cry on the Hogwarts train."

"I have some leftover Calming Draught with me," said Luna helpfully. "You want it?"

"No." She did want the potion, but she wanted to not want it more. Luna smiled at her. Ginny took a deep breath and changed the subject. "You were going to tell me who gave you the so-called diadem."

"I was. Are you sure you want to know? You're not going to like it."

Ginny shook her head. "Luna, when are you going to learn that saying things like that only makes curiosity worse?"

Luna shrugged, putting her wand behind her ear. "It was Draco Malfoy."

Ginny sat up straight, pulling her feet down from the seat. " _What_?" Luna did not try to clear up her confusion; she just shrugged again and smiled. "And you accepted it? You do remember what happened the last time he gave a girl a piece of jewelry, right?"

"Well, considering he can't be trying to kill Albus Dumbledore this time, I didn't see the harm."

"Well, did he want something in return?"

"No."

"Did he say why he gave it to you?"

"He said it made him think of me."

Ginny leaned back in her seat and stared at her friend. Luna looked back gravely. She apparently didn't have any other insights. "Is he trying to be friends again?"

"Well, he informed me before he gave it to me that we weren't friends. Very solemnly too."

Ginny shook her head. "Well, I think it's obvious what he's doing."

"Really?" Luna looked interested.

"He's trying to get back in your good graces. He's attention-deprived. He's used to everybody in Slytherin catering or cowering to him and he can't stand it now that he's untouchable."

Luna frowned slightly. Some noise was starting elsewhere in the train carriage. "No, I don't think that's it."

"Really? What else could it be?"

"I think he's trying to be friendly."

"Friendly?" Ginny snorted. "Since when has any Malfoy ever done anything friendly? Is there something else he did that makes you think that?"

"It's more about what he hasn't done," said Luna. She twisted pieces of her hair and looked at Ginny, still frowning a bit. "He saw Daddy, you know. And he hasn't said a thing about it."

"He—" Ginny stopped. "Wait a minute. Was he on the coast too?"

"No, he came to our house."

" _What?_ " Ginny could not believe her ears. How could Luna look so calm? Death Eaters coming to call was not something to be calm about—even if it was the least dangerous most pathetic Death Eater in the entire history of all Death Eaters. "Okay, talk. Now. What happened? What did he say to you? Why aren't you mad at him anymore, after what he said to you last term?"

The noise outside their compartment was growing. Luna glanced at the door. "It's the way he's been acting more than anything he's said. I think he understands what's happening with Daddy."

Ginny frowned. "Are you _sure_ he didn't infect that diadem with something before he gave it to you? How, in any reality, is Malfoy knowing what's going on a good thing?"

"I didn't say it was a good thing," said Luna calmly. "But he hasn't done anything bad with it."

"That doesn't mean you can trust him!"

"I didn't say I did. Why are you so angry?"

"I…" Ginny faltered. "I'm not angry."

"Yes, you are," Luna contradicted her without any malice. "You were angry at him the moment he put his head in here." She was silent.

"It's not him I'm angry at, it's—it's what he _is._ I can't deal with it right now, Luna. I can't." Ginny, for the first time, began to feel angry with her friend. "I know what you're going to say, and I don't want to hear you say it."

"Then I won't. But Ginny," Luna leaned forward, her eyes wide and earnest and concerned. "You know—I've told you—I have been watching what happens to a person when they can't forgive and move on. I don’t want to watch it happen to you."

The noise outside finally reached a discernable level. Voices.

"—lingering in the corridors isn't allowed."

"Really? Since when?" Malfoy's voice. Ginny and Luna exchanged glances.

"You're blocking the flow of traffic."

"I'm not blocking _anything_ , this is the last car."

Ginny placed the other voice. It was Harper, and he sounded perfectly smug. "Don't cause a scene, Malfoy, there are plenty of empty seats in other compartments. Just pick one."

"I'm not the one causing a scene, Harper."

"Is that a threat?"

"Merely an observation."

"I don't know, Malfoy, I'm feeling threatened. As are the first-years; they've been warning each other not to come down to this car. Travers was good enough to inform me. What have you been doing?"

"Standing here, watching the scenery go by. It's an extremely intimidating activity, I know."

"Don't mock me, Malfoy. Your attitude is very poor. How was your holiday, hmm? Got a taste of Azkaban, did you?"

"You wish."

"What's the matter? Things not well at home? Didn't walk in on Mummy with the Senior Undersecretary, did you?"

"You shut your mouth, Harper!"

"Oh—look, everybody, Malfoy's drawn his wand. You're all witnesses. Travers, you're a witness. What do you say I put in a call to your handler, Malfoy? The small man with the big stick, to get that overdue Azkaban-sentence of yours? Woof-woof."

"He's not my _handler!_ "

Ginny was unconsciously leaning forward, straining to hear every word. Luna hadn't moved. She stared very hard at the door.

"Oh, I see…he's your mum's handler then, is he? That would explain a lot." Harper laughed cruelly.

Malfoy's voice became very quiet. It was the most threatening tone that Ginny had ever heard him take. "Take it back, Harper."

And a girl with an extremely silky voice encouraged Harper. "It explains what exactly, Harper?"

Luna looked sharply at Ginny. Ginny resisted the urge to groan. She waved her hand. "Oh, go on, then."

Luna jumped up and threw open the compartment door just as Harper announced loudly: "Oh, it's a dual meaning, really. She needs a handler; everyone knows she's a whoring slag—"

"BLIBBERING HUMDINGERS!" Luna shouted—practically shrieked. Ginny scooted closer to the door so she could peek out into the corridor. Students were poking their heads out of every compartment in the car watching the commotion—and now all of their heads were turned towards Luna. Malfoy stood in the middle of the train car, facing their compartment. Harper was in front of him, and Travers stood just behind Harper. They, along with everybody else, turned to look at Luna. Malfoy stood very still. His wand was drawn, and he was just now lowering it. There were more students behind him, preventing his escape.

"Blibbering Humdingers," Luna repeated, more serenely. "I just saw one floating past, and I thought I should tell you, as you are a Prefect."

"Uh," said Harper. "No offense, but I really don't care." Malfoy, while everyone's attention was turned away (except Ginny's), slipped his wand up his sleeve.

"Oh, but you should!" said Luna. "They can be very dangerous. They make people over-excited you know. And they can cause delusions. I had a great-aunt that tried to jump out of the top window of her house once because she thought she could fly."

"Look, Lovegood, I said I don't care."

"It was a very tall house. She would have died if my great-uncle hadn't grabbed her. What if students try to start jumping out of windows? Hadn't we better report it to the train conductor, and make sure everybody knows to look out for it?"

The students started giggling. Harper looked annoyed. Luna marched up to him, pushing past Travers, and grabbed Harper's wrist, dragging him past Malfoy. "Thank you for helping. I'll tell the Headmistress about your concern. Have you ever seen a Blibbering Humdinger? They move very quickly, but if you see a flash of pink and green out of the corner of your eye—"

The students continued to giggle as Luna marched Harper past the compartments. Travers gave Malfoy a pointed glare and followed them. Malfoy stood stalk-still, as if afraid to move. He made eye contact with Ginny, and then grabbed at his bag as if afraid she was going to jump out of the compartment and steal it.

"Well?" said Ginny crossly. "You coming?"

Malfoy looked over his shoulder, then walked quickly over to the compartment, slipped inside, and sat down. Ginny shut the door and drew the curtains. Malfoy looked at the seat across from him, gripping his bag with both of his hands.

"You're welcome," said Ginny, annoyed at his silence. Malfoy gave no indication that he'd heard. She tried again. "Must be rough, getting a taste of your own medicine. Imagine what it would be like to endure that sort of teasing about your family for, you know, a whole generation."

Again, Malfoy said nothing.

"Why were you standing in the corridor?"

"Got to the station late," said Malfoy.

"And…?"

Malfoy stared very hard at the seat. "And maybe I had a hard time finding another compartment that only contained purebloods, do you mind?"

"Purebloods, huh? That's why you're stalking Luna, is it? She's a pureblood?"

Malfoy practically snarled, "Why does _everyone_ think I'm trying to do something with Luna?"

"Everyone?" Ginny was startled. "Who's 'everyone'?"

"Nobody," Malfoy muttered.

"What _are_ you trying to do with Luna?"

"Nothing."

"And I'm supposed to believe that? Since when have you never had a motive for anything you ever did?"

"I don't want to fight, Weasley. Do you mind if, for the duration of this train ride, both of us simply agree to pretend the other one doesn't exist?"

Ginny blinked. _That_ was a very un-Malfoyish thing to say. At that moment, Luna came back into the compartment. Without looking up, Malfoy shifted his position, tucking his legs further in so Luna could squeeze by. She sat down next to Ginny.

"Thank you again for your present, Draco."

"You're welcome." Malfoy's voice was flat. He continued staring at the seat.

"Did you like the biscuits? They were a new thing I was trying, and I know they can be unorthodox." Luna had _fed_ Malfoy? The world was getting weirder every day.

Malfoy shifted his position again. "They were…interesting."

"You didn't," Luna sounded a little disappointed. "But I appreciate you trying to not hurt my feelings."

Was it Ginny's imagination, or had Malfoy's face slightly changed color? She looked between him and her friend and back again.

_This…this can't possibly be what it looks like._

"I'm going to study," Malfoy announced, and he took out his _Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts_ textbook and refused to speak another word to them for the remainder of the ride.

*

Draco's hopes that he could melt back into the woodwork were dashed on the first day of the second term. He darkly thought about all of the curses he could cast on Harper as new whispers followed him down the hallways.

" _How is he back? How did he get out? He cursed the Slytherin girl."_

_"He didn't curse her, he entered her mind."_

_"No, I think he tried the Imperius."_

_"I heard his mum must be with that Hit Wizard now – the one that arrested him?"_

"I'll curse them," Draco gritted his teeth. "As soon as this ban is lifted I'll curse the daylights out of every one of them."

The professors also seemed surprised that he was back, though they were better at hiding it. Croaker was the only one who addressed it specifically.

"Back again, Malfoy?" he asked gruffly as Draco sat down to the first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson of the term. He must be more upset with Draco than the other professors, as he had actually been present.

"Yes," said Draco shortly and without explanation.

Croaker began the class without further inquiry. "We are now at the point where we begin to officially exit the realm of the textbook. For the next two terms we will not only be practicing known methods of defense, but methods currently in development, and methods not accessible to all wizards—even the most experienced. These are the _Uncommon Methods._ We start today with one of the simplest newer methods of defense: a domed shield charm. Has anybody seen this in action, and can they describe how it is unique to shielding charms?"

Ginny Weasley raised her hand. Croaker nodded at her. "It's like Protego Totalum, in that it protects entire areas, but it's just in the area immediately surrounding the caster and can be erected in an instant."

"Correct. Does anybody know the incantation for this particular charm?"

The room was silent. Draco looked at his hands.

"Malfoy. Can you venture a guess?" The silence got thicker. "I presume you have seen this particular charm in action."

Croaker was definitely upset with him. Draco raised his head and looked him in the eye. _Yes I have, but not for the reason you're thinking._ "It's _protego spatium_. And Weasley's wrong. It's not necessarily for the area immediately surrounding the caster. It's for the area immediately surrounding whomever the caster is trying to protect."

Croaker looked at him very hard, even as he addressed the rest of the room. "Correct, Malfoy." Weasley sent him a peeved look. "Does anybody know why this charm is considered to be Uncommon?" Nobody did. "It is devilishly difficult to cast. Most often, it only succeeds when the caster is in a very real danger—in fear for their life. And in most cases, it's impractical – only when the endangered individual is surrounded or does not know from where the attack is going to come is this shield preferred to another. The shield is instantaneous, yes, and it protects from all but the Killing Curse itself, but it requires very strong magical abilities and intense concentration. Falter but a little and the shield will be broken. Now let's see which ones of you have it in you."

Draco suspected that it was because he did not have a hard time imagining life-threatening situations that he was one of the few people who, by the end of the class, had managed to cast glowing, golden shields around their persons. Ginny Weasley was one of the others, probably for the same reason. None of them managed it for more than a split second, but Croaker assured them that with practice they _may_ get better, and often the situation where a dome shield needed to be used didn't last for more than a few seconds anyway.

"Hey, Malfoy," asked Seamus Finnigin as they left the classroom. "How many people have you seen casting this charm? How many of your attempted murders did it foil?"

Draco shouldn't have risen to the bait, but he answered calmly, as if it were the most natural question in the world to be asking anybody, "I've only seen it cast once, actually, and it was cast by my mother." He left Finnigan to mull over that as he escaped to the Great Hall for lunch. It was buzzing, as usual, but what was less than usual was how the Slytherin table got very quiet as he approached it. Draco did his best to ignore the eyes on him as he unslung his shoulder bag and set it on the end of the bench, where no other students were present. But he was not at all surprised when, before he could sit down, a hand tapped him on the shoulder.

"Malfoy, we're going to have to ask you to leave."

Draco ignored Harper and slid onto the bench next to his bag. "Really? I must have missed the _Table-Banned-to-All-Students-With-Last-Name-Beginning-with-M_ sign." He reached for the pitcher of pumpkin juice with one hand, while his other hand clamped the end of his wand under the table.

"I mean it."

Something in Harper's voice was different. Draco glanced up, and there was an odd look of sincerity on the hulking idiot's face. God damn it. Since when did Harper have a talent for theatrics?

A second-year piped up, "You'd better move, Malfoy."

"Yeah," said a girl that Draco half-recognized. "We've all decided." And she put her arm around the girl sitting next to her – Vanessa Travers.

"Decided. Really?" Draco looked from Travers to her friend (the girl was one of her cronies, he realized). "Decided what, exactly?"

"We've decided that you should be nowhere near my girlfriend," said Harper solidly.

"Your…" Draco looked at Travers again, who sat with a somber and yet smug look on her face. "You have got to be kidding me. Harper, Travers? Really?"

"I'm warning you, Malfoy! Leave our table! Right now!"

"Why?" Draco made no effort to hide his disgust. "You think Travers needs protection now? I thought you had more respect for her abilities than that."

"Respect!" Travers' companion cried. "You are the one with no respect, Malfoy! This is not a matter of protection – this is a matter of _principles_ , of standing up for what's right. The time is past when Dark Wizards get away with attempts to sully the innocent!"

"How long did it take you to come up with that speech?" Draco glared around him. He counted at least fifteen drawn wands—though they were all pointed down.

"You lost the privilege of being in my presence the moment you tried to enter my mind, Malfoy," said Travers softly and with satisfaction.

"And if I don't?" Draco doubted that even the most biased professors would ignore a fifteen-to-one attack against him. "What do you expect me to do, go eat lunch in the bathroom like an insecure thirteen-year-old girl?"

"I don't care where you go, Malfoy," said Harper, looming over him. "Go another House table for all we care. But you do not want to make an enemy of us—of all of us. We now see you for what you really are."

"Oh, you didn't realize I was a Dark Wizard before?" Draco said dryly. "That's what the dark mark means, geniuses."

"We learned something important at the Battle of Hogwarts," said Harper pompously. "That when the Good stand up against the Evil together – the Evil doesn't have a chance."

"Really. I don't recall you being at the Battle of Hogwarts, Harper."

"I don't recall fighting on the wrong side either, _Malfoy._ "

Harper did not scare him. But as Draco looked around the table, and he saw the grim-faced Slytherins, he realized that the duel had not proved his strength at all – it had placed a giant, glowing target on his back. He was now a threat. A quiet rage broke over him. "All right," he said calmly. "To make all of your days more comfortable, I will eat elsewhere. At another table, as Harper so generously suggested." And before he could lose his nerve, and while he could still relish the astonished, disbelieving looks on the Slytherins' faces, Draco stood up, picked up his bag, and swaggered over to the crowded Ravenclaw table, where Luna was sitting with her own bag beside her. It took a moment, but slowly the inhabitants immediately surrounding Luna realized he was standing there and they gradually fell silent, fixing him with accusing and nervous stares.

"Hello, Luna," he said very loudly. "Mind if I join you?"

Luna looked over her shoulder at him. Draco had silenced two tables – the disbelieving Slytherins, and now the Ravenclaws were falling silent as students turned to see what was going on. Like ripples, then, silence spread about the hall and people waited with bated breath—though Draco distinctly heard a Hufflepuff behind him whisper, "What's wrong? Did he challenge someone to another duel?"

The longer she looked at him, the less confident Draco felt, and the more humiliated he felt. Luna Lovegood held his fate in the palm of his hand – if she turned him down, he would be turned out of the Great Hall, more isolated and vulnerable than ever—he would be defeated. A threat that could be defeated when people stood together. That was _not_ a reputation that he needed.

"Of course, Draco," said Luna, turning back to Michael Coroner. Draco immediately saw a problem—there wasn't any actual room, and nobody looked willing to move to help decrease the tension. Luna came to his rescue again. As she began speaking, she casually lifted her bookbag and put it in between her feet. Draco quickly slid into the gap, and the Ravenclaw on his other side quickly pushed the students on their other side to increase the distance. "The difference between Shapeshifters and Skinwalkers is very slight, but actually very important. See, as a Magizoologist you need to be able to tell the difference. And then there's the tricky bit of differentiating between those two things _and_ Animagi. There is a whole dictionary dedicated to differentiating the different species alone."

Draco realized his heart was pounding very hard, and his limbs felt slightly watery with relief. Gradually, the noise in the Great Hall picked up again. Nobody seemed very impressed with the lack of dramatic action. Draco heard the Hufflepuff behind him again. "Well _that_ wasn't anything. What was everybody expecting, him to hex Lovegood right then and there?"

"What I want to know is why the hell Lovegood let him sit next to her," said another student.

Luna didn't seem at all concerned that she was now the topic of conversations scattered around the hall, and she also didn't seem to notice how Michael Coroner was distractedly picking at a splinter in the table and carefully not making eye contact with Draco. Draco made it easy on him; he tried to not make eye contact as well as he clamped his bookbag in between his knees and forced himself to eat as if it was a perfectly normal thing to be eating lunch at the Ravenclaw table with Luna Lovegood beside him talking about shapeshifters.

"And then of course there are animals that have enhanced intelligence by way of an Intelligence Charm, which greatly complicates the diagnosis of what sort of creature you are handling—is it just an animal, or is it a skin-walker attempting to act like an animal? There was an incident nearly ten years ago, in Mexico, where—"

Luna's hands moved excitedly as she told the story of a Mexican witch who had had to face down a Jaguar and make a snap judgment about whether it was a Skinwalker or a Shapeshifter. On Luna's wrist was a bracelet with long, dangling charms. The charms bangled and wrestled with each other when they came into contact. Draco listened in amazement to Luna's ramblings while he watched a tiny cactus and a tiny eagle having it out against her sweater.

"—you look confused, Draco, did you have a question?'

"Huh?" Draco jumped. Luna had turned her wide eyes on him. "No, I've just never…really heard you make sense before." Luna blinked. _Damn._ That had sounded like an insult; he couldn't do that or he might find this table closed to him as well. Draco hastily amended, "I mean, you're, um, smart. About animals. And things. I've never heard you talk about them before. Like that." He meant non-imaginary creatures.

"Well, I am going to be a Magizoologist," said Luna. "We study magical creatures."

"I know." Draco hastily looked away and stood up, grabbing one last roll before he said something else stupid. "Mind if I eat here again later?"

"I don't," said Luna. "As long as it isn't a meal where we are supposed to sit by House."

"Right." Draco grabbed one more roll for good measure. "Thanks."

He hurried from the hall, and couldn't resist looking over at the Slytherin table to see both Harper and Travers staring after him, looking utterly disgruntled and disbelieving.

*

The next morning, Draco decided he may as well take this dragon by its ears and he marched straight into the Potions classroom fifteen minutes before Slughorn's first class of the day (second-years, Draco thought) would begin.

"Excuse me, Professor."

Slughorn looked up from a smoking cauldron and his eyebrows shot upwards. "Why, Malfoy! Back again?"

"Yes. Shocking, I know. Do you have a moment?"

"Well, I suppose, but make it quick. I have class starting in a few minutes." Slughorn bustled to another cauldron (this one bubbling ominously) and sprinkled in a few doxy eggs.

Draco came forward and put his bag down on one of the benches. "Swelling and girding today, sir?"

"Yes, yes, always like to begin with a demonstration—" Slughorn looked sharply at him. "How did you know…?"

"I recognized them," said Draco truthfully. "Hard to forget the day we brewed swelling potion for the first time. Someone threw a firework in Goyle's cauldron and people blew up like balloons all over the place. Sev—Professor Snape was furious." Draco chose to not mention that his nose had been one of the afflicted body parts in the classroom. He personally thought it must have been Potter—but then again, he always blamed Potter. He had never found out for sure.

"Yes…sounds most exciting…remarkable eye and nose you have if you recognized them so quickly…what was it you needed?"

"A favor. You'll remember I asked you last term if I could have access to the storeroom for independent study."

"Yes, I remember." Slughorn sighed as if it had been one of the most disappointing moments in his life. Then his eyes lit up. "Have you changed your mind?"

"No." He was never showing the mark to anybody ever again. Ever. He was determined. It just woke up more and more often the more he acknowledged its existence. "I still want to do independent study, Professor. I just wondered if you could tell me – if you could imagine, for a moment, that I didn't have this mark on my arm, what would you suggest I do?"

Slughorn stirred the swelling potion. "If you didn't have the mark, Malfoy, we wouldn't be in this predicament."

Draco took a deep breath and tried to be patient. "Sir, if I remember correctly, you told me the privilege of developing your own original potions is reserved for those who show great dedication to academic work."

"True, true…"

"So if I may, Professor…I would like to remind that, throughout all of my years at Hogwarts, with the exception of my sixth, my work in Potions has always been exceptional. That was the case last term as well, as you know. In addition, my work in Alchemy this year has been top-notch as well, I believe?" Draco paused.

Slughorn began drawing a diagram of eel brains on the blackboard. "Yes, indeed…but…"

"If I may continue, Professor?" Slughorn nodded. "Alchemy, I submit, does show a dedication to the art of Potion-making. It is not required, it has never been required, even for those determined to become Potioneers, as it is not always offered at Hogwarts. I also have excellent grades all-around, and I always have – with the exception of my sixth year, again."

"Be that as it may," Slughorn sounded exasperated; he erased his brain drawing and started over. "There's simply _nothing_ that can be done. I'm sorry." He did not sound at all sorry. Draco took another deep breath to keep from getting angry. He'd been expecting this—and he still had two cards to play.

"I understand, Professor," said Draco in the most resigned voice he could muster. "Thank you for listening, anyway." He picked up his bag and moved to the door. But upon reaching the doorway, he paused again. "Could I just say one more thing, Professor?"

Slughorn looked very much like he wanted to say no, but he patted the front of his robes and withdrew an empty vial as he said, "Of course, Malfoy, but make it quick."

"I just wanted to say thank you," said Draco, and he waited until Slughorn looked up with a confused expression on his face.

"Thank you? Whatever for?"

It was a good thing that Draco was so naturally dramatic, because he was prepared to lay it on thick. First card. Looking forlorn, he said heavily and earnestly, "I think you're the only professor at this school who has really given me a fighting chance. I've had a lot of time to think about what happened at the Ministry, and I've come to realize…how fortunate I am that I'm here at Hogwarts at all. And I realize there's only so much you can do, and I know I've spoiled my chances, but you were the only person I know that made me believe I ever had a chance at redeeming….anyway." He paused. Time for the second card—it was much simpler. "I would have been proud to have your name listed beside mine on anything I could have accomplished, though I know those sentiments aren't returned. I hope your students enjoy the swelling potion." With that, Draco turned and began to walk away as slowly as he could.

This was immensely risky, but it was the only shot he had. Slughorn, he knew, did not want to be known as the professor who freely and cheerfully associated with Death Eater students in the direct aftermath of the most horrible war the Wizarding World had ever known. However, if Draco had played his cards right, Slughorn _might_ decide he _might_ want to be known as the professor who completely turned his Death Eater student around, discovered a brilliant mind and Potioneer, be remembered always as the shining light that pierced the veil of…Death-Eater-ness, or whatever it was Slughorn chose to believe.

"Malfoy."

Triumph surged through Draco, but he forced his expression into one of surprise as he poked his head back into the Potions classroom. "Sir?"

Slughorn looked a little puzzled. "When did you decide your ambition was to be a Potioneer?"

"A week ago," said Draco. This was only a half-lie. He didn't have a particular "ambition" to be a Potioneer; it was, however, the most attractive option currently. And he had decided to pursue it a week ago, under the influence of a certain Christmas present from his parents.

Slughorn nodded slowly. "I can't simply give you free reign over such a dangerous subject, Malfoy."

"I understand, sir." Draco still forced himself to look forlorn and curious, as if he had no idea where this conversation was going – though, the longer Slughorn took to get the point, the easier it was getting to act uncertain.

Slughorn pondered this fact; Draco heard shuffling footsteps above his head. The second-years were descending; first period was about to start. "Let's do this, dear boy," said Slughorn at last and internally Draco rejoiced; Slughorn had called him _dear boy_. "You know a great deal about Potions and Alchemy—you are quite right about your grades—and you have real talent. If you can come up with a theory – a theory _only_ , mind you – and one that I can approve of, one that has real merit, by…let's say…before Easter break, I may – _may_ – decide to let you pursue it, under my own close supervision of course."

"Professor!" Draco did his best to look adulteratingly ecstatic. "I don’t know what to say!"

"Say nothing at all, dear boy, say nothing." Slughorn waved his hand dismissively. "You'd best be going now, you'll be late for your first class as it is – uh, Malfoy…stay away from Dark Magic in your theories, all right?"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Professor," said Draco, and he practically flew to Herbology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For simplicity's sake, I've left Dean Thomas out of the Malfoy Manor scene, even though he was there (in the books, not the movie).
> 
> Also, the song Luna sings is real, though it technically hasn't been written at the time she is singing it. I just couldn't resist putting it in because the very first time I heard it I thought it sounded like something she would sing - especially at a very dark time. It's called "Sanctuary" by Aaron Shust. You can take a listen here: https://youtu.be/yGPEkOC1Wk8?t=58s
> 
> My writing spree has slowed down a bit, but I'll do my best to have another update ready for you guys next week.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels awkwardly disconnected to me, but I cannot figure out for the life of me how to make it run smoothly and all of the scenes are necessary. SO HERE IT IS. You get it in all of its WIP snapshot-y glory.

Luna squeezed through Hogwarts' front doors and skipped through the snow-covered courtyard, past groups of laughing students.

Draco Malfoy was a puzzle, and not one that Luna had been expecting to face this year. Yes, she had helped in the hall when she'd found him so bloodied, and she'd helped him during the following week—that had been intentional. Her actions had been deliberate and carefully executed—even for Luna Lovegood it was impossible to pretend that the previous few years hadn't happened. They had. And after Daddy, well…Draco Malfoy had to be part of the process. She just hadn't expected him to _remain_ there. Ginny was probably right; he was probably lonely.

" _He's using you, Luna."_

_"I know."_

_"Doesn't that bother you?"_

_"He doesn't much bother me."_

And he didn't. At the Ravenclaw table, for example. He had been eating there for two weeks now, when he bothered coming to the dining hall at all which wasn't very much anymore. He almost never spoke to her – simply sat next to her, ate quickly, and then left. She could tell him to go away, but she didn't see the point. He wasn't doing anything wrong, or even remotely annoying—which was honestly a huge improvement.

_"You're not being nice to him because of the Christmas present, are you?"_

_"It was thoughtful of him."_

_"He had no idea that you would like it so much. He was just trying to get you to talk to him again."_

_"You might be right, but that doesn't make it less thoughtful."_

Luna slipped reached the archway on the opposite side of the main courtyard; she cupped the cold end of her nose. She didn't bother dwelling on the puzzle that was Draco Malfoy very much. Either he was using her for some secret purpose of his own, or he wasn't. There was no way for her to know, and she couldn't base her own actions off of a guess.

 _"Some mysteries are meant to be investigated, but when it comes to people, it is often best to be quiet and let the mysteries decide to reveal themselves."_ That was Luna's mum, when she'd taken Luna to Switzerland at the age of seven. _"People are too complicated, too easily misinterpreted, and too easily hurt."_

Draco's remarks had often been hurtful, but at least now he was keeping quiet.

_"He hasn't shut up because he's changed, he's shut up because he's scared of being reported to the Ministry."_

_"He's scared, that's true, but that doesn't have to be the only reason."_

As far as Luna was concerned, as long as Draco wasn't bothering her, she had no reason to push him away. There was too much pushing away going on; people pushed each other away based on trivial things like _popularity_ and _heritage_ and _oddness_ much too often. At this remark, Ginny had given up talking to Luna about Draco, and simply returned to ignoring his existence. Though, at the same time, Ginny had taken to giving Luna even more thoughtful looks than was normal when she thought Luna wasn't looking.

_"I'm watching what happens to people when they can't forgive. I don't want to watch it happen to you."_

Luna twisted her bag so that it lay flat against her back as she scrambled up the narrow ladder into the clock tower. Pleasantly warm air hit her face as she poked her head through the floor.  Draco started horribly, sending his quill flying past her ear.

"Luna!" He got onto his hands and knees and gathered his floor-spread parchments into a pile. Blue flames floated in mid-air, warming the crawlspace. "I thought you were going to watch Weasley's Quidditch practice."

Luna pulled herself up into the crawlspace, picking up his quill where it had landed next to the wall. "I was, but they started practicing a new routine so I had to leave."

"Weasley kicked you out?"

"No, but I really ought not to learn the secrets of the team that has still to play against my house, even if Gryffindor is my second-favorite." She held out his quill.

"Thanks." Draco took it, scooting back with his parchment in his arms to make room for her. Luna could stretch out her legs then, sitting opposite him. Leaning against a particularly sturdy gear, she got out her homework. They worked through the morning. At noon, Draco abruptly offered her a sandwich. She accepted, and then took a short walk through the gears to stretch her legs before returning to her work. The shadows shifted; a snowball fight started up in the courtyard below. Luna glanced up. Draco had leaned back, his face turned downwards and to the side, watching the fight. The sun sent shadows crisscrossing across his face. His hair was mussed; he looked exhausted. Though, when she thought about it, he often looked exhausted. Luna glanced at the parchment resting on his lap and the quill limp in his fingers.

"Is that a letter to your parents?"

Draco didn't look at her, but his fingers curved slightly, lifting the corner of the parchment up so it hid the lines from her. "Yeah."

"Do you write to them a lot?"

"Most weeks."

"You seem very tired. You've been working without stopping, haven't you?"

"So what if I have?" Draco rubbed the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed shut. "I haven't got anything else to do."

"You should take a break now and then; have some fun. Will you come to the Slytherin-Ravenclaw Quidditch game after Valentine's Day?"

"I doubt it." Draco paused, then said in an accusatory tone, "Besides, you're one to talk. You're the editor of the Quibbler now, aren't you?"

"No," said Luna mildly. "Daddy's the editor."

"But you're helping him."

Luna crossed out a line on her parchment and re-wrote it in the margins. "I always help him."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

"So why won't you give me a straight answer?"

Luna crossed out another line; her quill tore the parchment a little. "Because you won't ask straight questions." She looked up and met his gaze. Draco stared at her, eyebrows scrunched in angry lines.

_Why was he always angry?_

He looked away. "I assume that wasn't your calming draught on your kitchen table."

Luna's fingers slipped; her quill blotched the parchment. "No, it wasn't."

"I recognized the smell," he said, answering a question she hadn't asked. "Not because I'm good at potions. I mean, I am good at potions, but…" he trailed off. "What I mean is, I get it."

"You might not get it as well as you think." Luna put her quill to the side and gingerly blotted the article with a spare scrap of parchment.

_People are too complicated and too easily misinterpreted._

"I do get it," Draco insisted. "About the Quibbler. The responsibility of it. My parents gave me a Christmas present. They made me Lord of Malfoy Manor."

"That's nice." Luna rolled up the soiled parchment and got out her Care of Magical Creatures Essay. She added, "Your house-elf seemed quite pleasant."

Draco scowled; the floating blue flames flickered. "All I mean is—I just wanted to say—I didn't mean anything I used to say. Not really."

"Do you know," said Luna. "You aren't very specific sometimes?"

"Would you like me to be more specific? I'm sorry I'm a prat. How's that?" Luna giggled. Draco's scowl melted slightly, and he half-smiled. "Anyway. You and your father. I don't think you're loony."

Luna looked out into the courtyard as someone screamed, their face covered in snow. "Funny you should use that word. People used to call me Loony Luna."

"Uh…" Draco looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Oh, I forgot. You were one of them, weren't you? I stopped keeping track."

"Yeah, I was," Draco admitted, looking embarrassed. They both watched the fight, which had turned into a wrestling match of Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff. Draco's shoulders kept twitching, and his fingers kept fumbling with his parchment, and then he suddenly said much more loudly than was necessary, "I'm sorry for whatever we did to you and your father."

The room was suddenly filled with fog; Luna blinked it away. "You didn't do anything," she said quietly.

"Doesn't matter, though, does it?" Draco began to roll up his parchment, his movements jerky. "If you do nothing it's just as bad as doing something—least that's what the Ministry thinks."

"Sometimes. And other times I don't think it's as bad, though it's still bad." He was shoving his rolls into his bag; one of them folded in half.

"Well, then, I'm sorry for being a _not-as-bad_ Death Eater." Draco's voice was laced with sarcasm; stooped over in the small space, he stepped over her legs and made for the trapdoor.

_I don't want to watch it happen to you._

Never again. Not to anybody else. Not to Ginny, not to ex-Death Eaters.

Luna tilted her head up. "It's dangerous not to forgive, Draco, especially yourself."

Draco snorted, looking down through the door. "Oh? And that's why you're being nice to me, is it?"

"So you've finally figured it out," said Luna mildly. "Ginny thought you never would."

Draco froze. "I wasn't…" He paused for a moment and then he said in a very different sort of voice, "I wouldn't want what's happened to my family to happen to anybody else's, you know. If I'd known...I wouldn't have ever said…" And Luna knew he was not talking about the magic bans his family was suffering from, or their social suicide, or even the wild rumors about his mother.

"That's just it," Luna said. "You had nothing to do with what's happened."

"Oh, really?" Draco turned with a sneer. "You're telling me that us Death Eaters had absolutely _nothing_ to do with what I saw in your house at Christmas?"

"They influenced it of course," Luna stubbornly refused to include Draco in their numbers; he hadn't wanted this. She could see it in his body language now; she'd seen it in his face at her house; she'd sensed it in his manor, in the silence of his father, in the suffocating gloom of the house. How could she make him understand that? "but the Death Eaters didn't do anything to Daddy. He did it to himself."

*

Draco did not know how to respond to Luna's shocking declaration, so he didn't respond to it at all. Just went down the trapdoor without another word. But something had dramatically changed – whether Luna knew it or not, or whether it was just something Draco sensed within himself, he didn't know.

"Hi, Luna," he said rather awkwardly at lunch the next day.

"Hello, Draco," she said as if nothing was at all different. But it was. He pondered it as he stayed up late the next few nights in his room, making long, complicated lists of potions ingredients and their properties, and when he searched through thick library books for the alchemic properties of rare gemstones, and sneezed when reading rolls of dusty parchments about maladies that had long-affected Wizard-kind but had no known cures. He took his potion the next weekend to catch up on sleep, and when he woke he lay staring at the ceiling for a long time.

Luna had changed, he realized. That was the difference. Or, had she? Was he just seeing her differently now? She was no longer the absent-minded, oddly-inclined, dreamy Potter-friend. She had suddenly emerged from her place in the blinding celebratory postwar realm and stood before him with both of her feet planted solidly in the real world.

Luna Lovegood was real.

This shouldn't have come as a surprise—of _course_ she was real. He knew that. He'd always known it. But he felt like he hadn't really _understood_ it until now.

Luna Lovegood was real.

The knowledge burned him. The other students seemed more distant and unimportant than ever; his own family, his newly-acquired manor—they all seemed like walled-off trifles. Somebody else real had burst into his world, bright and burning, and she _knew_ things. She didn't just spout oddities; she _knew_ truths. She held secrets carefully and she listened and she watched. She was an open receptacle. She was real, and she _listened._

And she understood what was happening inside his family. She was watching the same thing happen within her own. (What had happened to her mother, exactly? Draco, for the first time in his life, wondered.)

Draco fought the knowledge for the next several days. He had to bite his tongue to keep all of his burning thoughts locked up inside, all the things he wanted to tell Narcissa but couldn't, all the things he screamed silently to the darkness at night, all of the things his mark knew and mocked him for. He avoided Luna just because he _knew_ he might not be able to continue to fight this overwhelming, urgent, depressing desire to just _tell_ someone. To tell them everything. To tell them _anything_.

Nobody listened to him anymore, except Narcissa (and maybe Lucius). Nobody cared anymore, except Narcissa (and maybe Lucius). And they were the very people he could not bear to go to.

Then he couldn't stand it. It got too cold to study in the clock tower, even with magical flames burning, so Draco sought her out in an upper-floor abandoned classroom near Ravenclaw tower after dinner.

Just to study. They hadn't really spoken since that Saturday. _Just to study._

She glanced up as he came in and moved her schoolbooks and parchment to one side so they only took up half the table. Draco sat down across from her and pretended to work.

"What is it?" Luna asked after some time.

"Huh?"

"There are thoughts trapped inside your head and they keep whirling around. It you don't let them out the Wrackspurts might get them."

"Oh." Draco didn't even question how she'd known. He scratched the back of his neck and asked the first thing that popped into his head. Wrackspurts or no, he couldn't just give her his thoughts. This was Luna Lovegood. He didn't trust her.

He most definitely did _not_.

And he blurted one minor question he'd been pondering for the past two weeks. "I was just wondering how your mother died."

"Oh." Luna's voice got quiet.

"Sorry!" Draco said immediately, bending over his paper and mentally kicking himself. Of all the stupid small-talk questions he could have asked to distract her, he came out with 'so tell me how your mother died'?? "Shouldn't have asked."

"No, that's all right. People just don't usually ask me direct questions." Luna set down her quill and folded her hands as if to give a very lengthy, studious explanation, but all she said was, "She was trying to create an endless fountain in the pond out behind our house. She drowned."

Draco mentally banged his head against the wall. He hated getting mixed up in other peoples' sob stories. He hated pretending to care.

Because he certainly _didn't_ care.

"…sorry."

But Luna wasn't sobbing. She didn't even look upset, only a little somber. "Mum was always trying to create beautiful things. I think, if she had to die, it was all right for her to die creating them."

Luna stared into space above Draco's head and smiled. She didn't look as if she minded being asked to talk about this. Draco relaxed a bit. He couldn't help being a little curious. _Besides,_ he told himself. _I need ideas to help coming up with a potion…there's no harm in asking…_

"What's an…endless fountain?"

"I'm not sure," said Luna thoughtfully. "That's what she called it in her head. She told me. But it was supposed to be beautiful."

"What was it supposed to do?"

"Be beautiful." Luna smiled again into space. Draco felt a prickle of irritation; maybe Luna could be happy about "beauty," but he personally would be majorly ticked off if either one of his parents died because of something that was useless and _pretty._ It annoyed him that she didn't seem more upset.

 _No,_ he corrected himself. _You're annoyed because that's no inspiration for a potions theory._

"You're incredulous," said Luna. "But magic is beautiful, you know. People tend to forget that."

Draco changed the subject. "You have a pond out back?"

"Not anymore. Daddy drained it."

"Oh." Draco scanned his list of potion properties.

"Thanks for asking," Luna was looking at him. "I like to talk about her."

"No problem," Draco muttered.

"What's that you're doing?"

Draco pounced on the change of subject with relief. "I've convinced Slughorn to let me try to create a potion."

"Not the sleeping potion again?" Luna sounded as close as she ever did to being alarmed.

"Probably not. I don't know what it'll be yet. I have to come up with a theory before he'll let me do anything." Draco let the scroll roll closed with a snap.

"Well, if you want help brainstorming, I have lots of ideas for lots of things." Luna picked up her quill again.

"Thanks. I'll let you know."

After an hour of quiet studying, Draco found himself watching her with his chin propped on his hand. She had purple beads in her hair, and a single enormous sprig of holly tucked behind one ear, her wand tucked behind her other. She glanced up after several minutes of this and Draco's hand slipped; he flailed and caught himself, then asked quickly and angrily, "Why're you so upset about what I take for sleeping anyways?"

Luna's face fell; she scrunched one sleeve with her opposite hand. "Experimenting on yourself is dangerous."

"Don't criticize me," Draco snapped. "You've no idea what it's like. What right do you have to try and stop me?"

Scrunch, scrunch went her fingers. "Forgetting doesn't help."

"And how would you know?"

Luna's gaze dropped. "Don't shout at me, Draco."

He felt only slightly abashed. "Fine, then. I'll just go." He swept up his things and stood.

"You can be angry with me for interfering, Draco," said Luna suddenly. "But if I find out you're still taking something dangerous, I will turn it in."

Draco froze. "Don't you _dare_."

"I will dare," said Luna. "You don't understand what you're doing. You said you didn't want what has happened to your family to happen to anybody else's, and…well, I don't want what's happened to mine to happen to you."

"What are you talking about?" Draco was caught between being furious and feeling dread.  

"Daddy couldn't forgive, so he tried to forget." She looked into his eyes from where she sat. "It didn't help."

Draco couldn't decide whether to leave or stay; so instead he swayed on his feet.

Luna continued. "What did your dad do?"

His feet remained stubbornly planted. Draco sat down heavily back down on the bench, his responsibilities suddenly crushingly weighty. "Nothing. I don't think." He pondered this, then added, "But my mum watches him."

Luna suddenly reached across and grabbed his fingers. Draco jumped and stared at her hand. "Please don't do anything stupid, Draco."

Draco's thoughts beat against the forefront of his brain. He forced them back as he forced himself to laugh, pulling his hand away from hers. "When have I ever?"

*

He had thought that there was nothing to make him stop liking Defense Against the Dark Arts, but he was wrong.

"Today, we will be working with a charm that most of you are probably familiar with, and at least one of you has already successfully cast – the Patronus Charm." Excited murmurs broke out; Ginny Weasley smiled, as did Seamus Finnigan. Draco's stomach twisted slightly. "This charm is Uncommon simply because it is so extraordinarily difficult, and only becomes more difficult when it is needed most – when being attacked by a Dementor, for example. Most wizards and witches will never successfully cast one in its corporeal form, and the majority will not be able to successfully cast one at all, especially when actually confronted with a situation in which it is needed." Draco studied his quill as if he'd never seen it before and found it enormously interesting. "Furthermore, it is a common belief that because the Patronus is such a pure positive force untainted by darkness, there will always be _certain_ Wizards and Witches that, no matter how highly skilled they are, will always find a Patronus beyond their reach." Croaker had his back turned, and he mentioned no names. But the room quieted, and Draco felt the stares burning the back of his neck. "But," Croaker added. "That is a superstition for which there is no and probably never will be conclusive proof. Now, the incantation is…"

Draco didn't listen to Croaker's explanation of how to cast a Patronus Charm. He knew the theory, as probably everybody else in the room did. Potter's incredible mastery of the charm (and his teaching it successfully to other students) had made the Patronus Charm and how to cast it the subject of many _Daily Prophet_ and magazine articles and do-it-yourself kits.

Draco had never cast a Patronus Charm. He had never even attempted it. He had come close, once, in the dead of night, just as a desperate attempt to cheer himself up. He'd even gotten to his feet, even raised his wand – but he hadn't dared. Dementors had been their allies. It was forbidden (and unnecessary) to cast their one weakness, even when there were none present. Besides, as he sat here now feeling sick, even though Croaker was right about it being a superstation, Draco had no doubt in his mind he would be unable to cast so much as a sliver of silver. He believed it, as did the other students in this room.

Dark Wizards could not cast the Patronus Charm.

Draco was distracted from his self-pity and dread when Croaker called Ginny Weasley up to demonstrate, and she awed the class by sending a silver horse charging around the room. Draco had to grudgingly admit to himself that it was very impressive. And intimidating. However, his self-pity and dread immediately returned as Croaker instructed everyone to stand up and give it a try.

"That includes you, Malfoy," he said when Draco didn't jump up eagerly like the rest of the class. Draco strongly considered refusing, or feigning illness, or some other useless scheme to get out of doing this, but his pride wouldn't let him.

 _Of course, the question is,_ he thought, _what injures my pride more – trying and failing, or admitting my own inability to cast this before I even start?_

Draco got to his feet and moved to a corner of the room. On the bright side, Luna was in the second N.E.W.T. level Defense class, so he didn't have to worry about her watching him fail. Then an idea whispered in the back of his head – _what if you don't fail?_ He imagined the looks on his classmates' faces, on Croaker's face, on Slughorn's face when he heard.

If Draco Malfoy could – beyond belief – cast even the slightest non-Corporeal Patronus…the effects of this ability would go far beyond his reputation at Hogwarts, and its uses would go far beyond driving away a rogue Dementor or two. This thought was enough to fill him with …not exactly confidence…more like defiance. He closed his eyes.

A happy memory...a very happy memory…well, that one time Potter had fallen from his broom and lost the Hufflepuff match and his broom had been smashed by the Whomping Willow had certainly been satisfying. But, Draco doubted vindictive pleasure would work for the Patronus Charm.

A happy memory…it had to be an old one, before all the rumors had started flying about, before the whole world started falling apart. His eleventh birthday; that had been happy. Draco smiled to himself. Mother had overseen the creation of the most elaborate cake he'd ever seen in his life – Father had said it was – Draco's smile faltered.

No.

Memories with Father in them wouldn't work.

What, then? His eleventh birthday…the train ride over…the arrival…the Sorting. Draco took a deep breath. The Sorting. His immediate Sorting into Slytherin. The fastest sorting of anyone in his year – or of anyone that he could remember, actually. That was a happy memory. That was an untainted happy memory. That was a happy memory the Dark Lord hadn't stolen from him.

" _Expecto Patronum,_ " Draco whispered, without actually trying to cast anything; just trying to get used to the words in his mouth. "Expecto Patronum. Expecto Patronum. Expecto Patronum." He slowly raised his wand, his heart beginning to hammer. "Expecto Patronum. Expecto Patronum." He hesitated slightly, and then said with force, _"Expecto Patronum!_ "

Several things happened at once. Draco opened his eyes wide to see whether it had worked, he saw Ginny Weasley watching him from across the room with an intense expression, an image exploded through his mind, dissolving the Sorting hat and his fellow students and McGonagall's face—a leering skull, twisting serpents—and then the Dark Lord laughed and the mark _screamed_ and pain like one of his nerves had caught on fire shot up his arm. Draco cried out and grabbed at it, almost dropping his wand in the process. Most of the class was too busy shouting _Expecto Patronum!_ to notice, but Croaker did and he walked over.

"All right, Malfoy?" he said in a stiff, teacherly way.

Croaker's movement, rather than Draco's pained cry, made several students look up. Draco hastily let go of his arm. "Fine," he lied, and his voice came out barely above a whisper. Croaker raised his eyebrows, but walked away without saying anything else. Draco stood there for a long moment. His wand-hand shook.

Ginny Weasley was still watching him. He glared at her. She didn't look away hurriedly like someone embarrassed that they were caught staring. She didn't even change expression, but just looked at him in an unnervingly inquisitive way until a student tugged at her arm, requesting assistance.

Draco didn't attempt another Patronus. He merely pretended to until the end of class, and then practically ran from the room, ignoring the half-laughing jeers that followed him.

_"Not so fun being a Dark Wizard now, huh, Malfoy?"_

*

"Are you all right, Draco?" Luna inquired at breakfast later that week, after two more failed Patronus classes. "You look awful."

"Thanks," Draco muttered sarcastically. He'd slept even worse than normal last night. As some of the novelty of the Patronus wore off, people in class were beginning to take notice of how Draco Malfoy, usually the first to successfully cast anything in class, had not had so much as a thread of silver about his wand. Reactions ranged from laughter and nervous giggles, to exclamations that it was even further evidence he was a danger to Hogwarts, to horrified whispers, to theories about how he stayed up in his room at night, creating new curses that he tried out on animals in the Forbidden Forest.

He had not really attempted casting the Patronus again, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he _could_ have cast the Patronus the first day, he _would_ have been successful, but the mark had interrupted the process. It had come to life and stopped him. And every class thereafter made him feel ill; Ginny and Seamus consistently cast their Patronuses and helped Croaker try to teach the others; with their direction, a significant handful could produce mists of silver of varying sizes and degrees. And being surrounded by the light, Draco felt it was untouchable. The more he was around those damn Patronuses, the more he felt he was being shoved into a dark corner from which there was no escape; the more he felt bound to the mark holding him back.

 He leaned over his plate, forcing himself to eat just so he could have an excuse for not talking.

Luna, apparently, still couldn't take a hint. "You really do look dreadful. Are you feeling all right? Perhaps you should go see Madam Pomphrey."

"I'm _fine_ , Luna!"

"Yeah, he's fine, Luna," said Seamus Finnigan loudly as he passed. "Just having a spot of trouble in Defense class. His experience with the Dark Arts is working against him for once."

Draco pressed his lips together, trying and failing to keep a flush from rising up his neck.

Luna leaned her chin on her hand. Draco felt her gazing at him and his flush worsened. "What happened?"

Draco refused to answer, and Michael Coroner (sitting across from Luna, as usual) answered for him, "I heard he can't cast a Patronus."

Draco growled to his sausages, "Shut up, Coroner."

"Well, that's not unusual," said Luna, sounding unruffled. "Lots of people can't cast Patronuses."

Draco rubbed the back of his neck as he glared down at his half-eaten breakfast, the few bites of eggs he'd eaten churning in his stomach.

"Really," said Luna. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"It's just, people are saying it's because of, you know, his status as a Dark Wizard," mumbled Coroner.

Draco glanced up, his face burning. "I said to _shut it_ , Coroner!"

Coroner shrugged, only looking half-frightened, and turned to speak to the student next to him.

Luna frowned. "Well if it bothers you that much, Draco, I could help you after class if you like."

"It doesn't bother me!" Draco snapped, jumping up from the table. He hit his knee on the underside, making the teacups rattle. "I've got no need for a Patronus."

He fled the room with whispering laughter in his ears. He paused in the hallway and leaned against the wall, digging his fists into his eyes. He _didn't_ have need for a Patronus, it was true. These days, Dementors were never found anywhere near places where Ministry protection was set up – Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor included. They had scattered and were seeking out more helpless prey, like Muggles. There was a whole team of Aurors dedicated to hunting them down and keeping them contained; a draining, perhaps pointless exercise since nobody knew how to kill them.

Draco folded his arms and pressed them tight against his stomach as he glared at the floor. _It doesn't bother me._ Not being able to cast the Patronus did _not_ bother him, per say, even despite the embarrassment he always felt when failing anything in any of his classes. It was the _reason_ he couldn't that bothered him: the reason engrained in his flesh.

Students began to trickle from the great hall. "Hey, Malfoy," called Finnigan as he emerged. "What's it like knowing you'll have to flee to your enemies for help when the Dementors come knocking to suck out your soul? Or, wait…I've forgotten, do you still have one?"

Draco examined his fingernails. "Save your breath, Finnigan," he drawled lazily. "I know it's exciting to finally be better at a single spell than I am, but try not to flail about too much – you might hurt yourself."

Finnigan swelled, and then to Draco's complete and utter shock and amazement, Ginny materialized out of the stream of students and took Finnigan's arm. "Come on, Seamus, knock it off. You're getting so petty you're starting to sound like Malfoy himself." She dragged Finnigan away without once looking in Draco's direction.

Draco stared after her, not sure whether to be thankful or insulted that she had called him "petty," and then shook his head and went to class. Later that evening, in his extra-curricular Alchemy class, he suddenly sat up straight, staring blankly at the wall behind Podmore (the Transfiguration professor, who collaborated with Flitwick and Slughorn to teach Alchemy).

_Lots of people can't cast Patronuses. Dementors always sought out helpless prey._

Finnigan was right; at some point or another, Draco or his parents would have some sort of run-in with Dementors, and he doubted there would be people around to help. What if he could find another way to ward off Dementors? Severus had always said you could bottle anything in a potion: Polyjuice Potion was essentially Human Transfiguration in liquid form, Invisibility Potion was a drinkable Disillusionment Charm, Essence of Dittany created several potions that did what trained MediWizards did via healing spells.

Who was to say it was impossible to bottle a Patronus?

"—originated in which nation? Malfoy?"

"Huh?" Draco's eyes focused. "Um, Egypt," he said, and then leaned over and began to scribble madly.

*

Ideas poured forth faster than he felt he could get them down. He worked feverishly between classes, on weekends, late into the night. Even his dreams got slightly better, as his mind continued thinking about alchemical processes after he went to sleep. He played with a thousand implausible theories, trying to find one that made a semblance of sense.

What did Patronuses represent? How could you get that in a bottle? How could it ward off a Dementor? Could a person become their own Patronus?

Little work had been done on this question, but Draco didn't care. This was the first idea he'd had that he felt he actually wanted to find the answer to, and one that (as long as it made sense) he should be able to propose to Slughorn. He even stopped listening to the whispers following him, simply because his mind was filled with so many unanswered questions and possibilities.

That is, until one day in the middle of February, when Harper lounged on a bench in the hallway with Travers on his lap and her arm around his neck, and a crowd of Slytherins around them like normal. "And who is it you'll be going with, Florence?" he was asking one of the crowd. He raised his voice considerably as Draco passed. "I heard a rumor that Malfoy had asked you."

"UGH," said the girl, also very loudly. "You think I'd ever go with him? As if! No, MacMillan asked me and I daresay he's a sight better."

"Of course, how silly of me," Harper practically shouted as Draco rolled his eyes and continued down the hallway, trying to get back into his fleeting idea he'd just had about diamond powder. "He wouldn't dare ask anybody to Hogsmeade, much less actually _take_ someone. I bet five galleons he doesn't show his face all day."

Valentine's Day, Draco realized with annoyance. The idiots were jabbering on about Valentine's Day. It was this weekend. He shrugged off their mockery, but then, unbidden, a wave of memories hit him. Not just of Valentine's Day, but of Hogsmeade itself; treating everybody in the dorm to as many Honeydukes treats that Draco could buy and that they could carry back up; Pansy Parkinson clinging dramatically to him when standing outside the Shrieking Shack, actually _enjoying_ himself. And just like that, his concentration over his potions idea evaporated and was replaced by a cloud of gloom.

It was still there when he passed the Great Hall over the lunch hour (he'd decided to skip), deciding to head to Charms early. As he passed, a voice quipped, "Protego!" Draco flinched as a familiar flash of light flared behind his head. He whirled, wand drawn. Luna turned around, tucking her wand behind her hair.

"That one nearly got you. You're getting a little careless."

Draco lowered his wand. "Thanks. Who cast it?"

Luna shrugged. "Slytherin, I think. It came from that direction. Are you going to Charms?"

"Yeah."

"I'll come with you." She skipped into place at his side as they walked on together. "They were laughing about something before they cast it. Are they making fun of you for something new now?"

Draco gave a derisive snort. "Not having a girlfriend, probably. For Hogsmeade on Sunday. They're taking bets about whether or not I'm going to go with someone."

Luna took the lead on the stairs. "Well that's a silly thing to make a bet about. I'm not going with anybody either."

Draco looked at her in surprise. "You're not going?"

"Of course I'm going, my friends will be there. I'm just not going on a date with anyone."

And just like that, the beautiful image of Harper being forced to give up five galleons to another Slytherin painted itself in Draco's mind. He smirked at Harper's sullen expression in his mind's eye as he and Luna reached the landing. "You want to go with me?"

Luna stopped walking and stared at him with a look of astonishment. Draco immediately regretted the words. "I mean—I meant—not like that, just…just as…" he trailed off, hoping Luna would finish the sentence for him, but she didn't look like she intended to. Her eyebrows were slowly raising.

"I don't go on pity dates," she said, not unkindly, but rather in a helpful explanatory way.

Draco scowled. "Good! I don't either. I don't want one. I just meant as, possibly, just us as…friends?"

Then, almost in slow motion, a brilliant smile that sparkled in her eyes spread across Luna's face. "You want to be friends now?"

Draco froze. _Did_ he? Did he really? His common sense and childhood training was screaming _No!_ this was not the sort of witch a Malfoy aligned himself with in any sense of the word. Allies and acquaintances were everything: reputation was everything. Everybody you spoke to, everybody you befriended, everybody either helped you or tainted you—

Luna's smile lit up his insides and burned away the old common sense. "Yeah," he said, feeling sheepish. He held out a hand. "Want to be my friend?"

Luna's palm slapped against his with surprising force. But instead of shaking it up and down, she swung it back and forth, twirling her hips (and consequently, her skirt) in time with the swing. "I would love to go to Hogsmeade with you as a friend, Draco."

"Er," said Draco.

"Let's go," said Luna cheerfully. To his relief, she let go of his hand.

It took a silent length of hallway, but Draco found his voice again. "Really though, nobody asked you? That surprises me."

"Oh, people have asked me." Luna glanced at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Let's see, Michael Coroner...Zacharias Smith…and someone from Gryffindor, I don't even know what his name was."

"You said _no_?" The remainder of Draco's question went unspoken, _but you're going with me? What's wrong with you?_

"Yes, I did. The problem is, for one thing, I don't think any of them except maybe Michael would have asked me if I wasn't friends with Harry. And for another thing, they were all asking as romantic interests. I didn't want to go with them as a romantic interest."

Draco looked away. "Oh."

"If they had asked me as a friend I probably would have said yes, but you're the first one to do that."

Draco shook his head as they paused outside of the Charms classroom. "Well, it is Valentine's Day. You're kind of supposed to ask for a date, not a platonic, er...outing." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You're not…um, is there someone you were hoping would ask you for a date? 'Cause if there is…you realize people are going to assume we're dating when they see us in Hogsmeade, right?"

"Oh, I expect they'll be talking about more than that. I don't care what people think." Luna tilted her head and smiled up at him. "And no, I wasn't hoping for anyone. Even if I was, if you scare him off I expect he wouldn't be worth it anyway."

Draco squinted. "…ah."

"Anyway, aren't you concerned about what people will think?" Luna's smile turned inquisitive. "You never wanted to be seen with me before."

"Yeah, well, at this point I think my reputation as a respectable pureblood is shot anyway, what with being branded as a dangerous war criminal and all." Draco rocked back on his heels. "And frankly, I doubt it was ever worth very much to begin with."

It was only after the fact (again) that it hit him that Luna could take this as a grievous insult if she chose. But her face softened strangely, and the moment was thankfully broken by Flitwick trotting up to them, his arms full of papers.

"Here already, you two? Well, come in."

Draco jerked his gaze away from Luna and hastily went to his normal seat at the back of the room, burying his head in his textbooks, trying (and failing) to focus on anything before class started and distracted him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will still try to get a chapter out next week, but I unfortunately can't make promises. But whenever it comes, rest assured it will be full of the Valentine's Day...er..."platonic outing." :)


	12. Chapter 12

Draco did not sleep well that night. Feeling groggy and unhappy, he went to the Great Hall reluctantly a few minutes before ten o'clock, intending to tell Luna that he did not feel up to going to Hogsmeade. She was sitting on a bench outside the room, looking over a shiny new addition of the _Quibbler_. She looked up as he approached and immediately said, "We don't have to go if you don't want. I mean, I'll still be going, but I can go by myself."

For a moment, Draco's mind went blank. She was wearing the butterfly headdress, drawing the amused and bemused glances of students that passed as the silvery wings fluttered about her face, occasionally landing on her nose.

He heard himself saying, "No, that's all right, I'm fine. Let's go now."

_God damn it._

"Don't you want to eat first?" Luna inquired.

"I ate already," Draco said tiredly, and probably not at all convincingly. "Let's just go."

They headed out the door, ducking under Peeves as he soared through the air, chasing a hand-in-hand couple as they ran down the hall, pelting them with candy hearts.

Luna commented on the clear sky, and on the lovely new dusting of snow, and how nice it was to have a day dedicated to showing appreciation for one another, though she supposed it was best to try to do that every day, and a good many other things that Draco didn't listen to. He kept thinking about the escaped prisoners from Azkaban, and how his parents must be feeling. He wondered if his mother had even told Lucius what had happened.

Finally, as they neared the village, Luna yanked Draco out of his distraction by asking, "How is your potions idea going?"

"It's—all right. I have one now, anyway." He meant to explain what he was trying to do briefly, but as he started talking his brain started working away at the problem again, and it was such a relief to get his mind off of the escaped Death Eaters that he ended up going into detail about the theory behind the potential potion, and his own theories, and the possibilities he was exploring, and all the walls he was hitting, and particular potential ingredients he was considering—and then he stopped short as they stood looking in the glass of Honeydukes. "Merlin, sorry. Didn't mean to go on like that. Don't want to you to death."

"No, it's all right. It's nice to hear you be passionate about something again." Luna pointed across the street. "Want to get a Butterbeer?"

"Um…what?" Draco's mind was still reeling from confusion. Passionate? Was he really passionate about potions? "Um, yeah. Sure. Butterbeer. Sounds good."

Luna led the way in, and Draco pushed her towards an empty table. "Save our seats, I'll grab them."

The pub was mostly empty at eleven in the morning, to Draco's chagrin – Madam Rosmerta was not so busy to not give him a second look. _Merlin's beard, I'm an idiot. Why didn't I let Luna get these?_  Rosmerta's forehead furrowed. Draco felt himself flushing even before she said, "Draco Malfoy. Not in trouble with the Ministry then, I take it?"

"Err, no. Not anymore. Any more than usual, I mean." Draco avoided her gaze as he fumbled with his coin pouch.

"Good. I don't fancy Ministry people popping through my fireplace anytime they like."

Draco couldn't figure out the correct change, so he shoved a handful of Sickles and a few Galleons at her. _Sorry about all that,_ he wanted to say, but his ears were burning now and he couldn't look up. He didn't mean about the fireplace and the Ministry – he meant about the Imperius Curse.

"That's far too much," said Rosmerta.

"Keep it," Draco muttered, grabbing the two Butterbeer tankards.

Her hand grabbed one of the tankards, stopping him short. Foam sloshed over the top and spattered his fingers. Her other hand sorted through the coins on the counter, picking out the necessary sickles, murmuring under her breath, "I don't approve of using children."

"I’m eighteen—" Draco began automatically.

"You weren't two years ago." She let go of the tankard. Draco picked up the change and hurriedly stowed it away, then grabbed the two tankards again and hurried over to Luna. She had selected a table next to the front windows and sat leaning on her folded arms, gazing out of it.

"It's snowing again, we got in just in—are you all right?" She asked immediately as he sat down.

"Fine," he said shortly, and gulped down a healthy portion of his Butterbeer.

Luna sipped a bit of her own Butterbeer and then nursed it in between her hands. One of the silver butterflies flew down and explored the rim of her cup. "You know, if you feel bad about putting the Imperius Curse on Madam Rosmerta, you could just say you're sorry."

"I said I'm fine!"

Luna shrugged and looked out the window. "Your portion really is a brilliant idea if you can get it to work. I'm pretty sure the only person who's gotten past Dementors before without using a Patronus Charm is Sirius Black."

Draco had just taken another large gulp of Butterbeer; already very hot from his own blood, the Butterbeer, rather than being pleasant, was making him break out into a sweat. "Shrius Blag?" he slurred, rubbing his sleeve across his mouth. Luna, he noticed, had a thin line of foam on her upper lip. She took another sip of her Butterbeer.

"Yes. When he escaped Azkaban. He turned into a dog, remember? The Dementors couldn't find him because animal emotions are simpler."

Draco stared at her. _Sirius Black. Simpler emotions. ... I_ _'ve been thinking about this all wrong._

Luna looked away from the window and smiled slightly. Draco leaned back and looked out the window himself at the thick flakes falling past the glass. _That might actually work._

"What is it?"

"I've just had a thought." Draco mused for a minute more, turning the tankard in his hands and watching the bottom of the damp class great swaths of damp across the chipped wooden table. "You're full of great ideas, Luna, you know that?"

"Oh, no," said Luna casually. "I'm just full of ideas. Most are mediocre at best, but there are some great ones occasionally." She paused, and said just as Draco took another drink, "Oh, look! Harry's here!"

Draco started so hard his chair tipped back dangerous. " _Potter_?" he spluttered, coughing and grabbing the back of his chair as he turned, surveying the pub.

"Across the street, see? In front of Honeydukes." Luna pointed. "There's Ginny, Ron, and Hermione."

Draco unconsciously hunched his shoulders, hunkering down a little as he peered out the window. Oh, Merlin's beard. But he didn't see Potter. "What are _they_ all doing here?"

Luna's eyebrows raised. "I told you they were coming to visit."

"No you _didn't!_ " Draco hissed, though he knew it was impossible for any of them to hear him speaking. He flinched as Granger turned slightly in their direction, pointing at something down the street. "Do you think I would have come here if I'd known?"

Luna frowned and her lips puckered a bit. "I told you I was going to visit my friends. These are my friends. And Neville, of course, but right now he's—"

" _I didn't know you meant the whole bloody Golden Trio!_ " Draco, if he hadn't been whispering, would have been howling.

"Is that what you call them?" Luna sounded curious.

"That's what everybody calls them," Draco growled, still trying to duck lower, though if he were to really get out of their line of sight he would have to more away from the window, or else slide under the table. "Courtesy of Rita Skeeter, I think."

"Oh," Luna's voice hardened slightly. She took a few more gulps from her Butterbeer then set down her half-full tankard and stood.

"Hey—where are you going?" Draco protested.

"I'm going to go say hello," said Luna.

"But—we're—well, I'm not going!"

"You don't have to," said Luna reasonably. "You're being very childish though, and I'm not going to ignore my other friends because you're too scared to come with me."

Draco glanced out the window again, scanning for Potter who was still nowhere to be seen. "But—" When he looked back, Luna was walking out the door. "What—wait—damn it! Luna!" Draco jumped up, banging his knees on the underside of the table for the second time that month. He hurried after her, mentally cursing Luna for not being more clear about who was going to be in Hogsmeade, and for ditching him for other friends while on their—whatever this was supposed to be. Platonic outing.

_What are you, jealous?_ An annoying voice in the back of his head asked. He ignored it, following several paces behind Luna, drawing his scarf more tightly about his neck. He hoped the thickly falling snow would help hide him.

"—a point, though," Ginny was saying, and then she lifted one leg and kicked her leg in midair. A clump of snow fell off her boot as it made contact with empty space.

"Ouch!" said a disembodied voice.

"Merlin's sake, Harry, people are going to ask for your autograph no matter what we do, and I'm not going to spend the day with you under a tarp!"

"C'mon, Ginny, it's an invisibility cloak, not a tarp!" Potter's tousled head appeared in midair, wearing a sheepish grin.

"Yeah, Ginny, watch your choice of words," said Weasley, adjusting an imaginary necktie. "This cloak is one of special magnificence and a fantastic history of mischief and after-hours sneaking; it deserves to be treated with respect!"

The rest of Potter emerged and, as he stuffed silky material into his bag, Luna raised a mittened hand and waved it above her head. "Hello, Harry! Hermione, Hello! Hello Ron!"

Potter looked up and his face instantly brightened. "Hi Luna!" He and his two counterparts chimed eagerly. Hugs and back-pattings were exchanged all around, and then Ron Weasley suddenly drew his wand.

"Malfoy! What're you doing?"

Draco had stopped walking and was standing a distance away. He kept his hands in his pockets, one wrapped around his wand. "I'm standing here, Weasley, what's it look like?" he said lazily. "Is that against the law now? Put that away before you take someone's eye out."

Weasley pretended to mull it over as Granger and Potter both turned to fix him with uneasy looks. Other than Luna, Ginny looked the least perturbed to see him, though a bit surprised. "Hmm…yeah, no, don't think so," Weasley said, taking a threatening step forward. "You can beat it, we don't want you skulking about—"

"Ron!" Luna put her hand on his elbow, stopping him.

"Lay off, Ron," said Ginny, turning away with a shrug. "He won't do anything."

"What's he doing here, then?" Weasley glared in his direction, wand still raised.

"Ronald, you are being a bit over-dramatic…" said Granger, frowning, but also keeping her eyes on Draco. Potter seemed to have gone suddenly dumb. He was looking intensely at Draco as if trying to read his mind. (For all Draco knew, he was.)

"He came with me, of course," said Luna, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Put your wand away, Ron."

Weasley's wand finally did lower as he turned to stare at Luna. "What…with…Malfoy?" he said, as if it took a great effort to get the croaking words out. Luna let go of his elbow and turned back to Potter.

"Harry, they have a new broom handle polish at Splintwiches. The sign it was supposed to be very good. You might want to take a look at it if you're running low."

"With _Malfoy?_ " Wealsey repeated. "Like, as in, _with_ Malfoy?"

"Um, yeah, maybe, Luna, thanks," said Potter, running his hand through his hair to knock some of the snow off. "Er, do you want to go inside? I'm getting soaked in this snow."

"Is anybody else," Weasley's voice rose, "Going to mention the fact that Luna is here on a date with Draco _Malfoy_?"

Awkward silence fell. Somehow, Weasley's shocked irritation was immensely pleasing to Draco, and he did not move to correct him.

"Oh, do shut up, Ron," snapped Ginny.

"We're not on a date," said Luna cheerfully.

"You're not?" said Weasley, looking incredulous.

"Wait, you're not?" said Ginny in the same moment, looking even more surprised, which made Draco feel very uncomfortable. Weasley, also, seemed to notice Ginny's surprise and that, if anything, made him look even more unnerved.

"We're here as friends," said Luna pleasantly. "Nobody else asked me as a friend, you see, but Draco was nice enough to invite me." She glanced over at Draco. "I thought we could maybe buy some things in Honeydukes, is that okay with you?"

"Sure, whatever," said Draco, tightening his scarf again with one hand. He kept his other around his wand in his pocket.

The group awkwardly moved for the door. Ginny and Luna ducked inside first. Draco moved closer to the door, but folded his arms and acted as though he were going to wait outside.

"But, Hermione, you can't say that—" Weasley was hissing.

"It's Luna's choice, Ronald," said Hermione firmly, pushing him forward. She stopped by Draco and held out a hand. "Nice to see you again, Malfoy," she said, in a very formal sort of voice.

Draco did not move to take her hand. "Granger," he said in greeting, nodding stiffly. She let her hand fall, not looking surprised, and pushed Weasley inside. Draco looked across the street and muttered out of the side of his mouth, "Potter, can I have a word?"

Potter had been walking slowly, as if waiting for Draco to speak to him. He stopped. "Yeah, sure."

Without looking at him, Draco turned and walked into the narrow alley between Honeydukes and Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop next door. Potter hesitated a moment, but Draco heard his feet crunching in the snow after him a moment later.

_Bad decision, Potter._

"Did you see the Prophet?" Potter asked from a few paces behind him. Draco didn't turn around.

"Yes."

"Good. It's good you know, I mean."

Draco didn't say anything. He clutched his wand.

"Er…what did you want to talk about?" Potter ventured next. After another silence Draco heard him come a step closer, beginning to sound annoyed. "You have questions, I'm guessing."

"Yeah," said Draco quietly. "Yeah, a few." He whirled and grabbed a fistful of Potter's shirt, shoving him up against the wall with his wand at Potter's throat, like the friend of Emmaline Vance's had done when she'd tried to kill him last term. Potter's eyes went wide, and his mouth was slightly ajar. He looked completely stunned.

"Talk," Draco hissed. "Talk, right now. Tell me what's happened. Tell me why the _hell_ those Death Eaters got out, who let them out, _how_ they got out. And then, I want you tell me how often you've been in my house, who all has been in my house, and why the bloody hell any of you have been in my house and what _exactly_ you have all done to my parents and what you're planning to do next. Start. Now."

Potter looked completely disbelieving. "Malfoy," he said, his eyes still wide. "Are you _mad_? If you curse me—if the Ministry finds out—"

Merlin's beard. Draco was threatening to curse him; why the bloody hell was Potter concerned for _him_? He didn't look the smallest bit frightened. He wasn't struggling or reaching for his wand; his hands hung limp at his sides.

Draco snarled, "Continue to antagonize me and threaten my parents, Potter, and you'll discover just how much I care about my parole!"

"Malfoy, don't be stupid." Potter frowned, seeming to be careful to stay very still, while still not looking the slightest bit worried about his own inevitable demise. Draco would _kill him_. "Let me go."

Draco was mentally selecting an appropriate hex. _"Talk._ "

"Harry, what's—"

Draco started, and began to turn, but not quickly enough. A quick gasp, and then, " _Expelliarmus!_ "

Draco flew off his feet and landed on his backside on the ground, skidding backwards in the slush. His wand summersaulted through the air and snapped into Ginny Weasley's hand. She ran forward. "What do you think you're _doing_?" she shouted. "Harry, are you okay?"

"It's all right, Ginny," Potter put out a hand. "It's fine. Give him his wand back."

Draco scowled up at them from on the ground, his blood pounding in his ears, too angry to even feel humiliated. He glared at Potter and Potter looked back. "Tell me," he hissed, his lips curling into what was almost a snarl. "what's going on."

"If you weren't such a trigger-happy prat," said Potter calmly, with a look of what seemed close to disgust. "You'd find out I was going to do exactly that. Dark alleys just doesn't seem to be the best of ways to trade information though, does it? Seems a little… _suspicious_?"

Draco looked from Potter to Ginny, and back to Potter. Then he stood up and dusted himself off, tugging his robes into place with a snap of his wrists. "Following a known Death Eater into a dark alley with no backup, Potter." He sneered.  "How on Earth have you survived this long?"

"Honestly?" Potter sighed. "Lots of dumb luck, I think. Give him his wand back, please, Ginny." She did so, with a shake of her head. Draco snatched it from her and eyed the two of them with suspicion as they left the alley.

"So what sort of non-suspicious venue would suit you, Potter?" he growled, not putting his wand away. "I assume you realize people are going to talk if we stay anywhere for long."

Potter jerked his head. "Three Broomsticks. Nice and crowded. Lunch, maybe?"

Draco took a step back. "I'm not getting _lunch_ with you lot."

"Then don't order anything," said Potter impatiently. "But look, people are going to notice no matter what we do, but I'm friends with Luna and if you're on a date with Luna, then this is all less suspicious, all right?" Ginny went into Honeyduke's, calling to the others.

"Well, I—" Draco ran a hand through his hair, noticing a few students gawking at Potter from across the street. The couples were going to start flooding in any moment now; he could sense it. He lowered his voice. "It's not about _lunch_ so much as _you lot_. It's bad enough speaking to you, I don't want _all of you_ blathering on about my family's evil schemes."

"Well…"

Draco wilted. "…you've already told them everything you know, haven't you?"

"Yeah," Potter shrugged. "Anyway, you're forgetting, Ron's training in the Auror office too. I'm not the only one who's heard things."

"Great," said Draco dryly. "I'll be sure to note everything he says and I definitely will believe it all." He pretended not to notice a gaggle of probably-lonely girls stop short, gasp, point, then huddle together, giggling and whispering, just in front of the Three Broomsticks. "And Lovegood and I aren't dating," he added defiantly.

"Er, right." Potter rubbed his neck, looking towards the Honeydukes door, and pointedly away from the group of girls. "Then what exactly _is_ it you're doing with Luna?"

Draco turned, suddenly fed up. "If you're really concerned about Lovegood's welfare, just ask her yourself. I think she's intelligent enough to know if I intend to harm her." With that, he stalked away and pushed back into the Three Broomsticks, brushing past the girls who barely seemed to notice him.

It was significantly fuller in here than it had been thirty minutes ago. He spotted an empty table in the back and began to struggle through the rapidly-thickening crowd of students, keeping his head down and hoping to not need to diffuse a confrontation in front of Potter and Co.

The crowd thinned abruptly. "Ohh, Harry! Harry Potter!"

"Hi, Harry, how are you?"

"Harry, my mum says she wants your autograph."

"Mr. Potter, can you sign my scarf?"

"Could I have a photo? My dad's a big fan. I mean, I'm a big fan, and I've wanted to meet your properly—"

Draco stood beside the empty table and looked back. Potter was barely visible in the swarm of students. He was smiling, but both of his hands were jammed into his robe pockets. "Hi, nice to see you again, er…yeah, maybe later?"

Ron Weasley, too, had some admirers, but unlike Harry he was signing pieces of parchment with a grand flourish as he slowly made his way through the crowd. "All right, all right, just a few, maybe more later, yeah? I'm kind of busy right now—yes, hi…er, do I know you?"

And as for Granger, she was politely shaking her head and waving her hands. "Sorry, we're quite busy at the moment, and it's really not as grand as you think—everybody who stood up to Voldemort is a hero you know—excuse us, we're trying to—"

"Harry Potter! Harry Potter! Can I have a picture, please?" It was a girl who must at least have been a third year, but she was so short she didn't look older than ten. She stood on her tiptoes, waving a camera.

Draco put his hand on the table, feeling like he had been punched. Potter’s awkward smile faltered and vanished, and for a moment he stared at her blankly. Then his gaze flickered up, looking in Draco’s direction. Draco looked away, tracing his fingers along the wood, trying not to think about the obnoxious Gryffindor with the Muggle camera who had died at Hogwarts.

"ALL RIGHT YOU LOT, WE'RE TRYING TO SIT DOWN!" Ginny's voice bellowed. "You can jump Harry at any publicity event you want, but we're kind of trying to have a date!"

"What she means," said Granger quickly, "Is that there's a time and a place, and this isn't it—"

It was thanks to Ginny, and not to Granger, that the lot of them got to the table fairly quickly after that. And it was Ginny who began to delegate. “All right, three to a side, we’ll all squeeze in here. Ron, Hermione, and Harry on this side. Luna, you’re next to me. Malfoy, you’re next to Luna.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” said Draco, hand resting on the back of the booth now, and trying at the same time to not look at his current companions and to not look at the rest of the shop, some of whom were beginning to take notice of him standing there. “I’m not planning on staying here long.”

“Do whatever you want, but you’re going to look even stranger standing when the rest of us are sitting.” Ginny shooed Luna into the booth. “I’ll go get us some Butterbeers. Luna, Hermione, don’t let them kill each other.” She disappeared back into the crowd. After several awkward moments, Draco gave in and perched on the edge of the booth. Three to a side would have worked well had they all been a few years younger, but now it was rather cramped. Potter, too, was hanging slightly off the end.

“All right, Malfoy,” he said, one leg under the table, the other to the side to keep himself from falling off. “What do you want to know?”

Where to even begin? “Everything,” said Draco shortly. “And if that’s too large of a topic for you to comprehend, I’ll give you some examples. I want to know what you were trying to warn about me at the Quidditch Match. I want to know why Aurors are snooping around my manor and what they’re—you’re—looking for. I want to know how often you’ve been there. I want to know about that flyer campaign. I want to know what happened when Mother and Father were taken to the Ministry, why exactly they were taken, and how long they were there for. I want to know everything about the breakout from Azkaban. I want to know what the Ministry thinks my family has got to do with it. I want to know what the Ministry is planning on doing. I want to know why my parents’ names are on Arnold Peasegood’s list of conspirators. I want to know what the conspiracy theory is.”

Potter looked confused. Weasley leaned forward. “Peasegood?” he said, nose wrinkling. “Harry, isn’t that the curly-headed bloke that got on our case about uniforms when we first started? A bit of a sod, like Percy before he straightened out?”

“Yeah,” said Potter, tilting his head back and looking at the ceiling. “What do you mean, Malfoy?”

Draco scowled. “Peasegood’s got a vendetta against my parents. I want to know why.”

“How d’you mean they’re on a list of conspirators?” Weasley demanded. “How would you know that?”

Draco didn’t look at him. “I just do. Believe it or not, you three are not the only human beings in the world capable of investigation. Potter.” He said this last word sharply.

Potter straightened up. “Malfoy, you’re overestimating how much we know,” he said, crossing his arms. “I wasn’t going to tell you anything at the Quidditch match because I didn’t know anything, except that I’d been sent to your house.”

“Your manor, you said,” said Granger suddenly, peering at him. “You said ‘my manor.’”

Luna piped up. “Hermione, Draco’s parents made him primary holder of the estate last Christmas. Isn’t that nice?”

“Oh! Er...very.” said Granger.

Draco couldn’t read her expression. He wasn’t sure if he had wanted them to know or not. He nudged Luna’s knee with his hand to tell her to stay quiet. She must have misread the signal, though, because she took it between hers. Draco jumped and pulled away, folding both hands in front of him on the table. “Fine, then. What were you looking for?”

“It’s not Human Transfiguration, mate,” said Weasley, stretching out his legs so they poked out on Draco’s side of the table. “This isn’t the first time the Ministry’s investigated your lovely family dwelling for dark magic.”

Draco shot him a glare. “Don’t call me mate.”

“Malfoy’s right, though, Ron,” said Potter, frowning. “The Ministry’s been sending lots of people over, all the time. They haven’t told us what for,” he said this to Draco. “just that we’re supposed to look for items connected to the Dark Arts. They always make your parents wait in the front hall, though. I think it’s so they can search your father’s study. Whoever’s leading the mission always looks in there.” Draco looked at a crack in the table in front of him and forgot to keep scowling. “If there’s a list, like you say, that’d make sense. There’s the general idea in the department that there is a conspiracy going on. Makes sense with the Azkaban disappearances now. Someone is wanting Death Eaters loose again.”

“But there hasn’t been any news of mischief, or—illicit activities,” said Granger, in an oddly comforting tone, tucking thick pieces of hair behind both of her ears. Draco frowned at her to let her know that he did not need comforting. “Right, Harry? So it’s probably just that a sympathizer—probably the people who made those flyers—wants the Death Eaters free, but they aren’t eager to get thrown back in Azkaban so they’re behaving themselves once they're out.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Draco muttered.

“Lot of trouble to go through, though, isn’t it?” Weasley commented, for the first time sounding un-antagonistic and genuinely thoughtful. “Breaking major wizarding laws just to bust some people out of prison that’ll probably get put back in in a few months anyway, if they aren’t killed.” There was a long silence. Potter looked over his shoulder, craning his neck and probably looking for Ginny.

“And what about my parents?” Draco pulled his attention back. “They were taken to the Ministry about the flyers. What happened there?”

“I had the day off,” said Potter, jerking his head to the side. “Ron was there that day.”

Oh, just brilliant. Draco reluctantly turned his gaze to the redhead. Weasley looked like he was relishing the moment, and he didn’t speak right away.

“Draco,” said Luna suddenly. “I know you don’t mind discussing it with them because they all know it already, but I haven’t heard this story about your parents. Do you want me to leave?”

Draco kept his eyes on Weasley’s small look of satisfaction. “What? No,” he said distractedly. “I don’t care if you hear.” Weasley and Granger glanced at each other. Potter looked awkward. “Well?” Draco demanded, his frustration growing. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

“Not much to tell,” said Weasley with a shrug.

Draco took one hand off the table and grabbed his wand in his pocket. “I swear, Weasley, if you’re lying to me—”

“I’m offended,” said Weasley, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be so paranoid, Malfoy. It wasn’t exactly some big secret or anything. They brought in your mum and dad and asked them about the flyers. Kept them there half a morning; a bit overboard, if you ask me. You dad got agitated at one point and started shouting—I think they ended up stunning him or something—”

Draco closed his eyes and struggled to keep his face blank. So he had been right; the Ministry visit was exactly why his father was now on calming draughts. The _idiot._ “One more thing, Potter,” he opened his eyes. “Is there anything on the house that the Ministry hasn’t told us about? Extra charms or anything?”

Potter looked at him for a long moment. He ran one hand through his wet hair, which had been lying flatter than normal because of the extra weight of the water, and stood it all up on end again. Maintaining eye-contact, he said quietly, “Yeah.”

Draco would not have put it past Potter to say this just for the joy of watching Draco squirm, but his doubts were alleviated by Granger who turned to him and gasped, “ _Harry!_ You weren’t supposed to tell _anybody_ that! Savage _himself_ made you promise!” Chills went up Draco’s spine.

“Yeah, well, if he knows me as well as he says he does, he knows I was going to tell people anyway,” said Potter grumpily.

“We told you, ‘Miony,” said Weasley.

“But—yes—but— _Malfoy_ —”

“What?” Draco’s voice was trying to hide. He had to drag it out from deep within himself, and it came out hoarse. Potter looked at him again. “Potter." His free hand gripped the edge of hte table and he leaned forward unconsciously, staring directly at Potter. _"What?_ ”

“I’m not sure exactly,” said Potter. “Aurors watch from just outside the grounds—”

“ _Harry!_ ” Granger gasped in horror.

“—sometimes, anyway. Not as many as there used to be. And I’m not sure, but it’s possible when they—we—the Aurors go through the manor, they leave some things behind too, or pick things up that we—they—the Aurors left last time. It’s what I’ve been thinking about recently.”

Draco’s hand was beginning to hurt form how hard he was holding his wand, and he felt sweat beading on his neck, and the muscles in his back tense and twitching. Coolness swept over his knuckles—Luna was holding his hand again. He didn’t pull away this time. “Peasegood,” he managed.

“Peasegood’s spearheading it, yeah, I think,” Potter nodded. “Gets on everybody else’s nerves, though. He’s having less pull the longer this goes on without finding anything.”

“They haven’t found anything then,” Draco croaked.

“No, I don’t think so. Er…should we have?”

Draco abruptly got to his feet. He forgot about Luna’s hand, and her arm was pulled up with him as he stepped away. She let go. “No,” he said. “No. I’m – going now.” He fled from the table, and didn’t realize his wand was still drawn until several standing groups of students backed very quickly out of his way as he barreled towards the door. He made it out into the snow before he heard Luna’s voice coming from behind him.

“Wait—Draco—wait a moment!”

Draco turned around as she burst out of the front door behind him, panting slightly. “I’m going back to Hogwarts,” said Draco shortly. “Go eat lunch with your friends. I know you’d rather do that then go back with me.”

She pulled him to the side and out of the way of incoming and outgoing students. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Draco pulled away from her grasp for the third time in the past ten minutes. “I’ll just be glad when I know I won’t have to see any of them for a good long time.”

“Oh, well, that’s coming soon, then. After Exams, anyway.”

Draco looked up the path. The street was uncomfortably full now. “Meaning?”

“Hermione, of course. She’s coming back for exams.”

Draco groaned softly. “What? But she hasn’t been here all year.”

“No, she’s been studying on her own. But that’s just like Hermione to want to finish. Like you want to finish, right?”

Draco shook his head. “Well, there goes my chance at graduating at the top.” He kicked at the snow. “She wasn’t too happy about Potter telling me that,” he said, trying to sound casual, but suddenly intensely interested in what Luna thought about that fascinating scuffle. “Uh…why do you suppose Potter told me that?”

“I don’t know,” said Luna thoughtfully. “I expect he didn’t see the harm. He obviously doesn’t think you’re involved in anyway like the Ministry seems to think.”

“And like Granger and Weasley seem to think,” Draco muttered.

“Well, Ron's quite like you in that he holds grudges for a long time. And Hermione is very concerned about the rules, as you know. She probably thought it was careless of him.”

“Careless,” Draco repeated. “Yeah, that’s Potter all over.” He was stalling now, trying to distract himself from the new horrible possibilities. He had been right to worry about further Ministry invasions of privacy. What if they _had_ planted things in their home—what if they’d _seen_ Christmas, seen the black walnut wand, heard their conversations—

His common sense told him they hadn’t, or something would have happened before now to punish them all. Or would it? What if they were stalling for time, waiting for a good juicy build-up of evidence before they jumped them? Or what if—worse—something _had_ happened, something horrible, and his parents just hadn’t told him? This wouldn’t be the first time they’d hidden things from—

“Draco?” Draco jumped. Luna dug into her coat pocket and took out a small box, holding it towards him. It was bright pink and heart-shaped.

“Er…what?” Draco pretended not to know that she was expecting him to take it.

“I got this for you.”

Draco eyed it. “What for?”

“As a thank-you for the Butterbeer earlier,” said Luna matter-of-factly. “I bought it in Honeydukes. It’s all Valentine’s-themed right now, so I couldn’t get you anything else even if I’d looked.”

There was heat in his face again. “It was just a Butterbeer. I don’t want that.”

Luna looked down at the box, looking disappointed. “It’s just a present,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to be so jumpy about it.”

Bollocks, now she was making him feel guilty. Not to mention the fact that they were standing in plain sight of the entire school, facing each other at a small distance apart with one of them holding a heart-shaped pink box on Valentine’s Day. Draco snatched it from her hand and stuffed it into his pocket, getting it out of sight as quickly as possible. “Well, then, thanks. What is it, chocolate?” She nodded. “Good. Mother sends me chocolates all the time. I’ll add it to my stash.” She smiled. “I’ll…see you later, all right?”

She nodded. “In class tomorrow, at the latest,” she said.

The walk back to Hogwarts was long and cold, but he didn’t feel the air biting his face or hear the voices of the students he passed, and didn’t even remember the few jinxes he blocked instinctually. By the time he’d reached the castle he had a new plan. He went to his room to fetch a quill and parchment, and for the first time in his life he wrote a letter to a house-elf.

_Nippy,_

_I couldn’t give this order to Mother to give to you because I don’t want her or Father to know about it. I want you to search the Manor, top to bottom, every square inch, every nook and cranny, for anything there that doesn’t belong or wasn’t there before. I know you and Mother have been cleaning and re-arranging things, so I expect you to know if something is there that wasn’t there before, or if anything is missing. I also want you to look for extra enchantments that are new. You’re a house-elf so I expect you can do that sort of thing. If Mother or Father ask you what you’re doing, just say you’re cleaning, but I don’t want them to see you doing it. Only do it when they’re sleeping. Be extra thorough in Father’s study. Tell me about anything you find that is new or missing as soon as you’re finished. And if any Wizards come through the house, do it all again, and give me another report. But do so discretely so the Ministry doesn’t have a chance to see or hear you._

_-Master Malfoy_

It was an enormous risk, being so blunt like this, but Draco didn’t feel he had another choice. House-elves couldn’t pick up on orders obscured in code like the communications between Draco and his parents—especially when they were particularly dull and indiscreet, like Nippy herself was.

And then, at the same time minimizing the risk and making it even worse, Draco broke two laws. But at this point, he was past caring. The first wasn't a law for normal people, but it was for him: breaking part of his parole agreement. He sealed his letter so that no-one could open it except the recipient without destroying it. The second was a general law of owl-post; after affixing the letter to the leg of a particularly chubby school owl, Draco tapped it with his wand and turned it invisible. The owl let out a startled hoot and bit him on the finger.

“Just deliver it, would you?” Draco asked the owl, shaking his finger as blood dripped off the end. “I’ll get you a whole plate from the dining hall if you go straight there and back without stopping for anybody else in-between, all right?” The owl let out another hoot, bit him again on his other hand as if to show it meant business, but Draco heard it flutter to the window—brushing by another owl that also let out a startled hoot—and take off.

_That's the best I can do,_ he tried to console himself, tried to keep from panicking, as he went downstairs and shut himself in his room.  _That's the best I can do for now._

Wasn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, one and all! Sorry for the hiatus, but 1) life happens, and 2) I never want to force-write or post anything if it doesn't feel ready, and I needed some time to recharge my creative batteries. 
> 
> Once again, I don't know when the next update will be, but rest assured that I remain committed to this story until the end. Thanks for sticking with me!


	13. Chapter 13

They did see each other in class the next day, but really only as a technicality. If Luna hadn’t turned around in her seat and leaned out a bit to check, she wouldn’t have even known he was there, his head was bent so low over his textbook. She knew him well enough by now to know this meant he wanted to be left alone. She might have ignored his wishes if it weren’t for the next Quibbler deadline that was rushing for her like a bloodthirsty train. Working in-between classes, late into the night, and sending multiple owls over the course of the next week, she simply did not have time to seek Draco out when he didn’t want to be found. Her meals were hurried as well, because if she sat still for very long Ginny inevitably pressured her about whether she needed help, or if she was getting enough rest, or if she had hired the second editor as she had suggested a month ago, or if she could help in any way.

“Ginny, I appreciate it, but you’re not a very good editor,” she said bluntly. “That’s mostly what I’m doing at the moment—editing.”

Ginny took this in stride, with a nod. “Well, you had better pass your NEWTs with flying colors. And if you can’t afford another editor, then apply for a loan for expansion. Or ask Harry, he’d give you a loan in a heartbeat.”

Luna smiled and shook her head at this advice. It wasn’t because she personally thought it was a bad idea, but Daddy…well, not that he’d know the difference, or that she couldn’t keep the truth hidden from him, but he would be _devastated_ if he thought the Quibbler was losing money, or that he was losing his touch. She just couldn’t bring herself to make any more big decisions without him, especially if she could avoid it by simply doing the work herself.

On Friday morning—early, early, Friday morning—while the sky was still black and sparkling with stars, Luna sat hunched over parchment in the clock tower. She had put up multiple warming charms and had several jars filled with blue fire – a trick she’d learned from Ginny, who had learned it from Hermione. She chewed on her quill, blinking hard to clear the blur from her eyes. Bilius had written yet another letter about that editorial yesterday, and she had sent off a suggestion to Daddy about making a story about the conspiracy against the rights of house-elves. Though not passionate at all about the cause, Daddy had always been off-put by the conditions that house-elves sometimes lived in (the Lovegoods had never owned one themselves), and he did like Hermione Granger. At any rate, Luna hoped that this suggestion would take his mind from—

The trap door suddenly flew open. She jumped in surprise, as did Draco.

“Luna! Hey, I—I didn’t know you were here.” He looked strangely abashed. There was something different about his appearance. It took her a moment to place it, and then she realized: she’d never seen him with his hair so disheveled, or wearing a robe. He had evidentially just gotten out of bed. He ran one hand through his hair, glancing at the fire-jars, some of which hung in the air. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

“Oh, I could sleep,” said Luna vaguely, “I just haven’t had the time.”

Draco’s gaze went back to her face. He was still simply standing on the ladder, most of his body hidden from view. He frowned. “You look like hell.”

“Do I?” Luna felt mildly surprised. She grabbed one of the jars and attempted to make out her reflection.

“Hold on.” Draco lifted his shoulder bag through the door and plopped it on the ground. “Wait. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared before she could say anything else. Luna gave up on trying to make out her reflection. It didn’t matter; she probably had circles under her eyes, or they were bloodshot, or something. These were expected things when one decided to stay up all night doing last-minute editing.

She went back to the article on Herman Wintringham (lute player from the Weird Sisters) and his secret connections in the Ministry for Magic. She had just read the second-to-last paragraph three times (she was having difficulty focusing) when Draco’s head appeared again. It looked significantly less tousled than it had ten minutes ago. He climbed slowly, apparently taking great care to balance, and she realized why as the rest of him emerged. His hands were holding a silver tray, piled high with sugar cookies, two silver cups, and a large steaming pitcher that was filled—judging from the smell—with hot cocoa. He slowly lowered himself to his knees and then set the tray down. “House-elves,” he explained. “They’re still cleaning the castle. Saw them on my way here, after dodging Filch. Quibbler got you down? Or, up, I guess?” He started pouring the cocoa.

“No,” said Luna. “I wouldn’t be up if I just had to do the Quibbler.” Though he had fixed his hair, he was still wearing a very dark green dressing gown—almost black—and black slippers with silver trimmings. What little she could see of his pajamas were also black. She tried to remember when he’d ever worn something colorful, and couldn’t. She also couldn’t remember him ever wearing anything that wasn’t either formal, Quidditch robes, or the Hogwarts school uniform.

“Right.” He held out the cup towards her. “Hand it over.”

“Hm?” Luna took the cup, but he kept his hand outstretched, beckoning with his fingers.

“The article you’re working on. Give it to me, I’ll edit it.”

“Oh!” Luna took a sip of the cocoa, and it was like liquid life was being poured through her body. “No.”

Draco scowled. “Why not?”

Luna took another sip. Oh, this was _heavenly—_ thick, almost like pudding, with hints of cinnamon and peppermint. “Lots of reasons. You have to be very precise and professional, for one thing. If you miss anything it will be published for all the world to see. But, more importantly, you don’t understand the Quibbler. I have to edit for tone, not just for grammar and spelling. I also would rather you not make fun of it. And besides,” she nodded at his bag. “You obviously brought work with you.”

“Oh, that.” Draco glanced at it. “ _That’s_ coming along fine, I’m not worried about it.”

Luna’s brain was beginning to work again. Her blurry eyes cleared. She took another gulp of cocoa. “Is that your potion work?”

“Yeah,” said Draco, not elaborating further. “Look, you know me. I’m almost as smart as Granger. I bet you I would graduate top of the class if she wasn’t coming back for exams. I promise my spelling and grammar is immaculate. Just let me do that then, all right? You’ve marked up that one a lot already. Done grammar and spelling yet?”

“No,” Luna admitted. “I read them through at least twice.”

“Great. Give it here.”

Luna frowned at him over the rim of her cup. “Why?”

“Because,” Draco said impatiently. “You helped me. I don’t like to be in anybody’s debt.”

“I thought so.” Luna sighed, but relented and pushed the article over to him. “You’ll have to learn eventually, Draco, that debt doesn’t exist among friends.”

“Rubbish,” said Draco shortly.

“It’s _not_ rubbish,” Luna insisted. She got onto her knees and reached over to the tray, refilling her cocoa and grabbing a few cookies. “Friends help each other because they love each other, not because they’re indebted.”

Draco let out a short laugh. “Not the way the real world works, Lovegood. When you live in a family like mine you see how much politics really drives everything. Life’s just a bunch of mutual back-scratching.” Draco broke off, looking momentarily uncertain of his own proclamation, as if he’d suddenly remembered something. But the look was gone a moment later. He shrugged, got out his quill and ink, drank some cocoa and got to work reading through the article.

Luna said nothing else about debt, but his words made her insides ache. How sad it must be to grow up in a house where everything was tit-for-tat. Yet, from what she’d seen of him and how he felt about his parents, she doubted that philosophy held up within his own family unit. Oh, well. People could be blind when it came to their own family—she knew that well enough. Luna got out her Charms homework for tomorrow and began to work on her half-finished essay.

“Herman Wintringham is Shacklebolt’s long-lost nephew?” he asked abruptly after a few minutes.

“Yes,” said Luna coolly without looking up.

“And he’s using that connection to traffic Grundleweed from China,” continued Draco.

“Yes,” said Luna, still coolly. Draco was silent for a long moment.

“Oh,” he said at last, and then he didn’t speak again except to ask, “Got any more?” and Luna passed him her bag where the other scrolls of parchment still needing editing. Luna could tell he didn’t believe the news, but at least he was keeping quiet about it.

A few hours later, when the stars were fading and the sky holding the slightest hints of grey, and Luna was on her fifth cup of cocoa and her seventh biscuit, Draco suddenly went still. He had been sitting still anyway, but the complete absence of parchment-rustling and breathing made her look up. He was staring at a very ragged scroll of parchment, very withered looking from the amount of time it had spent in her bag and been folded in various separate ways. Luna’s insides went cold.

“Draco,” she said gently. “Give that to me.”

“What…” his voice was strangled. “…what is this?”

“Something that will never be printed,” she said. “Give it back.”

He looked up, a wild, infuriated look in his eyes. “Lovegood, the _hell_ is this?”

She hesitated, hand still outstretched, torn between two opposing sides, two loyalties.

Draco’s lips curled back; he was coming as close to a snarl as a human being could. “Did you write this—this—”

“No,” she said firmly. “And it’s one of the reasons I’m the one running the Quibbler right now.”

“Did your _father_ write this?” he demanded. His fingers tightened around the parchment; it crinkled.

Luna withdrew her hand. “Yes.”

Draco looked from her, to the parchment, then back to her. “Who else has seen this? Who else _believes_ this?”

“Bilius has seen it—” Luna began.

“Who the hell is Bilius?”

“Our primary reporter. But he knows we won’t print it. He knows it’s not true.”

“ _Who else_?” Draco shouted. Luna regarded him without saying anything. “Lovegood! If you don’t tell me this instant what the _hell_ this is doing in your bag, and how long it’s—”

“Draco Malfoy?” A pale, wrinkled hand pushed up on the trapdoor. A house-elf peered through, looking from Luna to Draco.

Draco stuttered into silence, looked completely caught off-guard. “What?” he snapped.

“There is someone here to see you,” said the house-elf, looking very disapproving, like this was the most horrendous of intrusions. Draco paled slightly, and he shoved the article so quickly at Luna that she knew he must be thinking of that Hit Wizard who had been coming to see him. She quickly rolled it up and put it away. “She says you sent for her.”

She? Draco froze, looking completely bewildered. “What? I didn’t send for any—”

“Master Malfoy?” squeaked a voice from below the first house-elf.

Draco’s mouth dropped open. “ _Nippy_?” he exclaimed.

“So Draco Malfoy _does_ know the elf,” said the first house-elf, looking even more disgusted.

“Yeah, she’s mine, let her up.” Draco yanked up the trapdoor, reaching down. There was a short, startled yelp, and he yanked up the small, thin house-elf that Luna had met on Christmas Day. He all but flung her across the small space, but Luna thought this must be an accident, because he didn’t look annoyed or malevolent—just extremely frazzled—as he slammed the trapdoor back down. The house-elf skidded across the boards and would have knocked into the silver tray had Luna not put out a hand and caught her.

“Oh, thank you, Mistress!” gasped the house-elf, giving an off-balance bow. She was wearing a tea-towel adorned with tulips all the colors of the rainbow.

“Nice to see you again, Miss Nippy,” said Luna.

The house-elf looked quite taken aback at being addressed this way, but she didn’t have time to respond because Draco barked out, “What the _hell_ are you doing here, Nippy? Is everything all right? What’s happened?”

“Nippy is sorry, Master Malfoy!” squeaked Nippy, looking both alarmed and ashamed. “But Master Malfoy said Nippy must not alert the Ministry, and Nippy had to give Master Malfoy her report—she has been searching, just as Master Malfoy told her, all night, top to bottom—and she would have sent warning, but she did not know how, without alerting the Ministry—but she has been searching, without rest, whenever she can, ever since receiving Master Malfoy’s order from the invisible owl—” Nippy suddenly toppled. Luna moved to catch her, wondering what this was about an invisible owl, but to her surprise Draco got there first. He grabbed the house-elf’s shoulders and set her back on her feet.

“Oh, thank you, Master Malfoy, Nippy begs for Master Malfoy’s forgiveness for—”

“Oh, hush up,” Draco released her shoulders. “You haven’t been _sleeping_? The hell is wrong with you?”

Luna was surprised. Draco, rather than sounding derogatory, actually sounded worried—if a bit annoyed and exasperated.

Nippy bowed again, multiple times, babbling, “Nippy is very sorry to have offended Master Malfoy, Nippy would never dream of intentionally offending Master Malfoy, Nippy is very sorry—”

“I said to hush up!” said Draco, looking embarrassed. He sent Luna a sideways glance. “I just—don’t want you dead on your feet, all right? You’ve got things to do. What did you find?”

Nippy straightened, as if being called to attention in a military unit. “There are no strange or unidentified objects around the Malfoy residence! Nippy also found no enchantments! There is a single box in one of the attics—Nippy remembered it from when Nippy and Mistress Malfoy were clearing out the Malfoy residence—with some things in it that Mistress Malfoy placed there, telling Nippy they were to remain in the attic and not be removed!”

Luna suddenly understood what this was about. “Would you like a sugar cookie?” she asked the house-elf, whose eyes were bulging and glazed over. She offered her one.

“Nippy will do what Master Malfoy—” she began. Draco waved his hand in a dismissive manner, staring out the window, his face very blank. Nippy took the cookie and bowed. “Nippy thanks Mistress Luna for Mistress Luna’s kindness.”

“You know my name?” said Luna, surprised.

“Oh, yes, the Masters and the Mistress spoke about Mistress Luna after Mistress Luna left,” said the house-elf, taking large bites from the cookie. “That’s how Nippy knows.”

“Nippy!” said Draco, a slight tint coming into his cheeks. “I’ve told you not to go talking about family conversations to outsiders.”

After Nippy’s profuse apologies, to which Draco did not respond, Luna asked her, “When did Mrs. Malfoy tell you not to move the box of things?”

“Oh, many months ago—” Nippy suddenly looked horrified with herself. With a wail, she dropped the remnants of her cookie, turned, and began to slam her head against a wooden beam.

“Oh, dear,” said Luna, realizing she had just caused the house-elf to disobey Draco’s order to not tell her about family conversations. Luna tried and failed to pull the house-elf out of harm’s way.

“Stop it,” said Draco flatly. The house-elf ceased, and began apologizing again. Draco finally turned from the window. “Answer her questions. When did Mother give you this order?”

“Nippy doesn’t remember for sure.” The house-elf wrung her hands a bit and rubbed them on her tea-towel. “Nippy thinks, perhaps, after the third visit from the other Wizards.”

“Was it…before Christmas?” Draco said, in a voice too intentionally casual. Nippy nodded vigorously. Draco visibly relaxed. “Right. Does Mother keep putting things in that box, or…or telling you to put them there?”

Nippy screwed up her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples, as if thinking very, very hard. “Nippy doesn’t know,” she said, at last. “Nippy thinks it’s possible.”

Draco looked frustrated, and Luna wondered if he was going to shout at her. But all he said was, “Oh. Well…keep looking. But sleep more often, would you?”

“Nippy will do as Master pleases,” said Nippy. “Does Master Malfoy wish Nippy to keep coming to Hogwarts?”

“No,” said Draco. “Don’t send me anything in the mail either. Just keep looking. If you do find anything suspicious, put it in that box. I’ll take a look at it when I get home.”

“Yes, Master Malfoy,” said Nippy, bowing again. Then she added in a furtive voice, “Nippy Apparated outside of the Hogwarts grounds, to be polite, and then walked the rest of the way to Hogwarts, but Nippy doesn’t think the other house-elves liked Nippy being here at all.”

“Yeah, well, they can’t have every student having house-elves bringing them messages.” Draco pulled up the trapdoor again.

Nippy pulled herself up to her full height. “Master Malfoy is not just another student! Master Malfoy is a very great wizard, and he protects his family from very bad, evil wizards!”

The tint was back in Draco’s cheeks, stronger this time. “Right,” he muttered. “Don’t call them bad or evil, it’ll just get us in trouble. Get going.”

“Nippy will Apparate away,” said the house-elf. “The others are very busy. But thank you for your thoughtfulness! And thank you for the food.” She bowed once to Draco, then once to Luna, and then disappeared with a crack.

There was a very long, awkward pause.

“She seems to like you very much,” said Luna.

“Yeah, I’m not sure why.” Draco closed the trap-door again. Then he sat down, arms crossed and stared at her blankly. “I haven’t forgotten about that article.”

 “Oh. Right.” Luna did not take it back out.

“Do you believe it?”

“Of course not.” Luna wrapped her arms around her legs.

“Oh, really? You don’t have any problem believing other absurd things.” The words were malicious, but his voice was flat and unemotional.

Luna raised her chin. “I believe things that don’t have…as many people say…“concrete” proof. But just because I am more open-minded and willing to believe things can exist when proof does not does not mean I believe things that have proof to the contrary.”

Draco’s eye twitched. “Proof to the contrary?”

“You,” said Luna. “I know you. And you know your family. And if you say something like this hasn’t happened, then something like this hasn’t happened.” Draco stared at her without saying anything. “And anyway,” Luna looked sadly at her bag. “I have to be careful about what Daddy says. He used to care about the Truth—” to Draco’s credit, he did not let out a disbelieving snort or awkward sniff or cough like most people in response to such statements. “—which is why he printed—why we print—what other media outlets won’t. But instead of uncovering reality, all he wants to do now is…well…create his own.” She broke off, unsure how to continue, how to explain, how to defend her father, how hurt he was, how he didn’t mean to—her eyes were blurring again, this time with hot liquid.

But Draco sighed loudly. “I’ve got all too much experience with that. Fathers creating their own reality so they can live with themselves and blame everyone else.” Luna looked up. Draco was rubbing his hand hard across his face and into his hair. Then he leaned his head back on the wooden gear behind him and gazed into space. “Though, frankly, I think mine’s got more of a reason to escape himself than yours.”

Her tears had vanished; she hadn’t noticed them go. Luna tucked her hair behind her ears and smoothed it down. “He blames himself for what happened to our home and to me. What the Death Eaters did to us, I mean. He hated turning against Harry, but the Death Eaters having me was worse.”

Draco looked at her again, one arm resting across his drawn-up knee, forehead wrinkled and his lips curled back in incredulity. “But _why_? I mean, why would he blame _himself_ for that? It wasn’t his fault, it was ours. We kidnapped you off the Hogwarts train, damn it, how was he supposed to prevent that?”

Instead of answering his question, Luna frowned at him. “I don’t remember _you_ kidnaping me off the Hogwarts train.”

Draco huffed. “Yeah, well, unlike your dad I was on the side responsible. I’m more to blame than he is.”

“That’s not how he sees it.” Luna shrugged helplessly. “I tried to tell him so, but it kept eating him up inside until he…well.”

Draco looked closely at her. “Did…did something happen? To your father?” Luna didn’t answer right away, and Draco shook his head. “Never mind. Shouldn’t have asked—”

“He tried to Obliviate himself.”

Draco’s expression of curiosity melted into horror. “He _what?_ ”

Luna tugged on her pants, drawing the cuffs down over her ankles. “It didn’t work, of course, not like it was supposed to. One can’t lose memories and cast a spell at the same time without it going wrong. I don’t know what he was trying to forget, exactly, but…” she shrugged again. Draco continued to stare at her, saying nothing, and there was no judgement, or condescension, or disdain in his face, and it was easy to keep speaking. “He has a hard time remembering anything anymore, and he remembers things that never happened, and he fixates on things that aren’t true. He spent a short time at St. Mungo’s and then went back for regular visits last term. But they’ve done all they can for him for now.” Only after she stopped speaking did Draco’s gaze break away from her, and he looked out at the dim sky.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment.

Luna hugged her legs tighter so she could rest her cheek on her knees and also look out down on the courtyard below. “Thank you. I’m sorry too. For what he wrote about—”

Draco didn’t seem to be listening. “I’m such an _arse_ hole. No _wonder_ you got mad at me.”

Luna lifted her head. “What?” Draco put his hands over his face and rubbed it hard again, letting out an agitated sigh. She cocked her head, a thought suddenly occurring to her. “What about…your father? Did anything…?”

“What? No.” By now, his hair was even more mussed than when he’d first poked his head up through the trapdoor, his voice thick with hefty bitterness. “No, he’s just that pathetic all on his own. All I can say is he should thank his lucky stars he’s got my mother, because _I_ definitely would not be pandering to his delusions. He could rot in St. Mungo’s for all I care.” 

Luna stared at him. She’d seen some of this bitterness before, she’d known there was trouble between Draco and his father. But she had never seen it this raw and open; this raging, careless mess bordering on _hatred_. It stirred some fear in her throat, sent an urgency into her next words. “You don’t mean that.” He had to take it back. He _must_ take it back.

“Don’t I?” His voice was low, and there was a dangerous light in his downcast eyes—or maybe it was just the blue fire reflecting inside of them.

_He’s just tired,_ she thought, suddenly conscious of her heart pounding against her ribs. _He hasn’t slept all night. He’s tired and frustrated and ranting to me because I’m listening, that’s all._ She took a deep breath and changed the subject. She wanted to steer them out of these dangerous waters, before Draco declared something else he might deeply regret. "Tell me about your mum."

The light continued to flicker. “My mum,” Draco repeated, sounding distracted and distant. He looked down at the courtyard again; vestiges of color began to touch the sky and reflect off the snow.

“You don’t speak about her much,” Luna prodded. “I like to talk about my mum. I thought maybe you would like to talk about yours.”

The dangerous light dimmed further. "I dunno,” Draco muttered. “She's…my mother. Father and her met when they were twelve. Or, when Father was twelve. She must have been eleven. At Hogwarts."

"That's nice." Luna traced a crack in the wooden floor. “What’s she like? Really, like? At home?”

“You think there’s a difference?” Draco’s tone was unreadable.

Luna weaved the tip of her finger back and forth across the crack. “There usually is.”

Draco sighed and didn’t speak again for a long while. “I dunno,” he repeated, at last. “She’s very…I dunno. Strong, I guess. She’s always been there. Unmovable.” He paused. Sometime in the past few hours, Luna realized suddenly, he had developed dark circles under his eyes. She thought that he might not be telling her these things if he’d not been too exhausted to stave off her questions. “If it weren't for her I wouldn’t be here and Father wouldn't be sitting at home."

Luna nodded. "You would be in Azkaban, you mean?"

Draco’s eyebrows lifted. He looked mildly surprised, like that possibility hadn’t occurred to him before. "Maybe. But no, I was thinking more along the lines of both of us would be dead."

He said it so bluntly that Luna was taken aback. She looked up from the crack in the floor. "You think the Ministry would have killed you?"

"Maybe,” he said, in the same tone of voice. “If they could have gotten to us. But no, I think the Death Eaters would have. If…if _He_ didn't do it himself."

"Voldemort, you mean?" Draco cringed as if someone had just jabbed him painfully in the back. The fingers of his right hand closed over his left wrist for a brief moment. Luna frowned. "You really ought to get used to saying his name."

"Whatever."

"I mean it."

Draco rubbed the back of his neck. "All right. But anyway. She stopped me and Father from doing anything stupid that could have gotten us killed. She did the domed shield charm for me once when things were…well, ugly. Infighting. There was lots of infighting. Though I don’t think any of us actually killed any of the others, without His orders. My aunt threatened to kill me once.” He added this anecdote almost as an afterthought, or a mildly interesting memory that had suddenly resurfaced. Then he continued. “And Mother stopped me from being tortured once that I know of, and she had to stay in the house by herself while I went off to school and father was in Azkaban. She managed to refuse to become a Death Eater but still gained entrance to all the meetings where Father and I were invited, she let them think that they _ruled_ the manor completely when she really still had control over it…well, as much control as she could have even when He was there. But she didn’t…I don’t know how to explain it. _She_ didn’t let Him control her. She lied to His face, she gave me her wand for the battle..." Draco trailed off.

He was speaking about his life as a Death Eater. Luna couldn’t believe it. “You were going to be tortured?”

Draco snorted, some of the usual condescension leaking back into his voice. “We all were, at least once. That’s part of being a Death Eater.” He rubbed his neck again. “But there was a time—one time—where she—after that bloody Weasley wedding, and Potter had run off, and Rowle and the other one were supposed to have caught him. But instead of trying again, they called the Dark Lord. Stupid idiots, even _I_ knew not to do that. But they did. And He was angry. And He wanted me to torture them.” He stopped.

Professor Flitwick traipsed across the courtyard below, humming to himself, his dressing gown leaving a light track in the snow. “You refused?”

Draco let out a strange cough; she thought it was meant to be a laugh. “No. Far from it. I tried. I failed. Hadn’t managed to get the hang of that particular Curse. And so He…wanted to ‘encourage’ me. But she stopped Him.”

“Wow,” Luna breathed, her newfound respect for Draco’s mother steadily increasing. “She stopped Voldemort—” Draco flinched again. He pressed the underside of his forearm against his stomach. Luna pretended not to notice. “—herself? Just like that?”

“Well,” Draco grimaced. “It only worked because He realized it would hurt me more if He tortured her instead of me. I didn’t have trouble with Crucio after that.” He looked down at his hands. His knuckles were white, both clenched into tight fists. “I don’t like to think about it.”

“I understand,” Luna began to say, but Draco spoke over her, his eyes smoldering, and his fingers clenching even tighter.

“And of course Father just – _stood_ there, like some sort of—well, at least he tried to get Mother back—and, all right, people were holding him, but he still just—he couldn’t—”

“He couldn’t stop it?” Luna suggested quietly.

“Oh, he _could_ have,” Draco snarled. “I’m sure he _could_ have, he could have—he’s not weak, physically, he could have clocked them if he’d really wanted—wand or no wand—it’s a matter of cowardice—but he—acts like a martyr—and he could’ve—but he didn’t—” Luna let him rant, saying nothing until he finally fell silent again.

“So it was up to you,” she said. “He didn’t protect your mother, and you were the only one left who could. Is that why you’re angry with him?”

Draco sent her a glare that clearly meant, _Stop trying to analyze me._ He gave a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

It was like Luna’s mother had said; _Some mysteries are meant to be investigated, but when it comes to people, it is often best to be quiet and let the mysteries decide to reveal themselves. People are too complicated, too easily misinterpreted, and too easily hurt._ “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Its fine,” Draco mumbled.

Luna knew she shouldn’t press further, but there was a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, and the need to _know_ was suddenly devouring her from the inside, a question she had been wanting to ask him, a question she had feared the answer to, because she didn’t want him to be hurt in that way—she didn’t want _anybody_ to be hurt in that way—she had to know how far his brokenness went—how much further the healing had to go—and the way he was always holding his arm when he thought people weren’t looking—

“Draco,” she said, barely above a whisper. Draco grunted in response. “Did you ever kill anyone?”

Draco looked at her and she met his gaze and they stared at one another; the shadows around Draco’s eyes were deeper, and lined with red, and heavy with exhaustion, and he was holding his arm again, but she thought he probably wasn’t even aware of it, and it was more a reflex than a conscious decision. And in his eyes were more questions and thoughts whirling around—she could see the ideas and the half-put-together theories, and how he was trying to analyze her even as she struggled to not analyze him.

But she didn’t think there was a lie in his face when he said heavily, “No.”

Luna breathed out in a sigh of relief. “Good.”

Draco looked like he wasn’t sure he agreed with her assessment. “Why?”

An owl swished by the window; a fresh, crisp breeze broke through the barrier of warmth created by the blue fire. The heaviness that had kept her awake all night dissolved. “Well,” she picked up her bag and moved to the trapdoor. Draco’s eyes followed her. “It does terrible things to a person’s soul.”

*

Draco couldn’t look at Luna for the rest of that day. He avoided her gaze, he avoided the Ravenclaw table, he stumbled through his glazes in a daze of disbelieving exhaustion. Fortunately, that night he did not find it at all difficult to fall asleep; Nippy’s report had alleviated the overwhelming worry of the past week. He should have known, he supposed. His mother was not stupid. She knew how to protect them.

He felt strangely _safe_. And it wasn’t until he accidentally made eye contact with Luna Lovegood the following weekend that he understood why.

She had told him about her family, he had told her about his, and the world hadn’t come to an end; the sky hadn’t split in two; nothing had changed, except the knowledge that they could be each other’s confidant without repercussions. He wasn’t sure what that meant, other than the fact that the weight in his chest was lessened. But at the same time, he oddly felt worse. When he was off-guard, not focusing on potions as he fell asleep, or if his mind momentarily wandered.

He had told her about being a Death Eaters, about experiences—and as vague as his descriptions had been, it had broken a small hole in the dam he had so carefully constructed. His defenses had weakened, and he returned to his pre-return-to-Hogwarts habit of waking up every night, sometimes multiple times a night, with the vestiges of nightmares clawing at his arms, or simply with a sense of intense fear that had no apparent source. if he so much as let down his guard the slightest bit in the day, he had to fight waves of flashbacks that he would rather not have; he had more burning sensations in his arm that he wasn’t sure if they were real or imaginary. But given the choice to take back what he’d said, or to simply have worked in his room instead of going to the clock tower…he didn’t think he would. He just had to work harder to control his memories. That was all.

The last weekend before the Easter Holidays, Draco finalized his preliminary potions assignment. He read it over several times before rolling it into a scroll and heading down to Slughorn’s office. He knocked on the office door, not sure if Slughorn would be in it on a Saturday, but the potions master called out for him to enter, and he did so.

“Oh! Malfoy, hello, I wasn’t expecting you.” Slughorn took off his reading glasses and very conspicuously turned over the paper he had been reading so the blank side faced upwards. “Can I help you?”

Draco placed the scroll on Slughorn’s desk. “I’ve just brought the potions theory I’ve been working on, like we discussed, sir. You said I would need to finish it before Easter?”

“Oh!” said Slughorn again, an intense curiosity lighting in his eyes. “Yes, of course.” He picked up the scroll and unrolled it, eyes scanning quickly over the contents. Frown lines puckered between his eyebrows, but they were thoughtful frown lines, Draco thought, not disapproving ones. He couldn’t imagine how Slughorn could disapprove of this. “Well,” he said a moment later, lowering the paper. “I’ll have to look over it more closely, of course, but this is…interesting, Malfoy. Very interesting.”

Draco inclined his head, one hand in his pocket. “Thank you, sir.”

Slughorn leaned back, pulling at his lower lip as he looked over the parchment again. “Quite a unique idea,” he said, half to himself. “Could reflect very highly on you, if it were to work.”

“Not a trace of Dark Magic, of course,” said Draco casually, fingering the back of the chair that sat before Slughorn’s desk slightly to one side. “I wanted to do something exactly the opposite.”

“Yes, indeed,” Slughorn said absently, apparently thinking very hard. “Well. Your dedication to reforming yourself is admirable, Malfoy. I will think this over and let you know my decision immediately after the Easter Holidays.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Slughorn repeated, rolling his scroll up and smiling up at him in a friendly manner. “I thought you might be watching the match.”

“Sir?”

Slughorn’s eyebrows raised. “The Quidditch match. I thought you’d be watching. I wanted to watch it myself, but, alas, I have an…inquiry I must respond to.”

“Oh.” He’d completely forgotten. Though now that he thought about it, the Ravenclaw-Slytherin match would be the reason that the castle was so quiet at the moment. “Right, well, I just wanted to get this finished. I’ll let you get back to work now.”

Draco left Slughorn’s office, but after closing the door he simply stood in the silent hall, thinking, before going back to his room, donning his coat, hat, and scarf, and heading out to the Quidditch pitch.

The sun was astonishingly bright today; a good deal of the snow had melted. The game was still going full force when he arrived. He stood at the back of the stands, shading his eyes and scanning the Ravenclaw benches. It took him about three seconds to find Luna, as she was standing near the front with what looked like an enormous live eagle perched on her head, its wings raised and flapping, and letting out screeches whenever the Ravenclaws cheered. He shook his head, but found himself grinning as he climbed down the steps. Luna was to the side of the Ravenclaw section. She wasn’t exactly sitting right next to the Slytherins, but her hat was so large and obnoxious she had cleared quite a large swath of benches around her so that there were no Ravenclaws between her and the Slytherins, who were sitting a good deal further away from her than they needed to be. He expected them to laugh and point, but they were mostly sending her dirty looks—probably, Draco realized as he glanced at the scoreboard, because the Ravenclaws were currently slaying the Slytherins. He found himself not really caring.

He plopped down next to her, half in the shade of the eagle’s wings (it wasn’t a real eagle, of course, but he wouldn’t have been very surprised if she’d managed to get a real one), just as a Ravenclaw Chaser scored after feinting and diving magnificently. Luna was on her feet, clapping wildly, and smiling, but not cheering like the others—perhaps because her hat was doing the cheering for her. He tapped her on the shoulder, still smirking, and she glanced down at him. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear, so he stood up, stooping slightly to avoid being hit by the eagle’s wings as it beat the air and ruffled his hair. He leaned close to her ear. “What?”

“I said hello,” she called back, cupping her mouth with her hand as the Ravenclaws let out more thunderous applause and screams. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Me neither,” said Draco simply, and then he turned to watch the game. A few times he straightened, only to get clocked in the back of the head by the eagle, but he didn’t move. After a half-hour the Slytherins seemed to have found their second wind, and while they only scored once, they also prevented the Ravenclaws from widening the already large gap in the scores. Several people who had been standing sat down, Luna and Draco among them, as the stands got quieter and tenser. Luna leaned forward with a look of intensity on her face, her hands gripping the bench on either side of her, her eagle sitting primly and silently with its wings folded. Draco suddenly remembered the last time he’d sat next to her, in the Three Broomsticks. Impulsively, as the Ravenclaw Seeker suddenly dived and the stadium gasped, he put his hand over hers. Luna clamped onto it as she pointed with her other hand.

“Oh, look, she’s going—! No, wait, she’s lost it.” The stadium let out a collective sigh. Luna’s grip loosened but she didn’t move away, and they sat there, linked, without saying anything.

Draco felt strangely self-satisfied. He wasn’t sure why. But he had the sense – the strong, strong sense – that everything in his life was somehow, miraculously, going his way. Except, of course—his got a plummeting sensation in his stomach and an aching sensation in his arm—for the escaped Death Eaters—

Something brushed his shoulder. Draco started and leapt to his feet so suddenly that he drew the gazes of several people. He thought one of them was the Muggle-born Slytherin boy, Jamie. Luna stared up at him, eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

“Er…” the eagle was stretching its wings. Its wings had touched him, that was all. “Nothing. Your…er, _hat_ startled me.” He sat back down as the eagle folded its wings again, taking a deep breath to calm his hammering heart and trying to forget how ghostly the brush of the wing had felt against his shoulder.

“Oh. Sorry about that.” She was the one who took his hand this time, and Draco felt slightly uncomfortable as he felt people looking at them again. Fortunately, though, the Slytheirns scored just then, drawing those gazes away. And the Ravenclaw Seeker captured the Snitch soon afterward, ending the game.

“That was quite good,” Luna mused as they climbed down the stadium stairs, still holding hands—though only because Luna hadn’t let go, and Draco was so preoccupied with convincing himself that it was the eagle had just startled him, there wasn’t any other reason for his violent response, that he hadn’t thought to let go. “We could have a shot at the Quidditch cup this year if Ginny would just miss the snitch…though it’s not very likely the Hufflepuff Seeker will beat her…oh, well.” She glanced at him. “You aren’t upset we won, are you?”

“What? No.” Draco shook himself out of his thoughts of Death Eaters. They were crossing the lawn now. “Good for you.” He pulled his hand away from hers and put it in his pocket. “Are you going home for Easter?”

“Yes, I really need to check on Daddy.” She swung her newly-freed hand at her side. “And take care of a few things at the Quibbler. What about you? Did you finish your potion work?”

“Yes, and yes.” He unbuttoned his coat; the sun was rapidly melting the last vestiges of snow, and its beams were making him uncomfortably warm. “You’re welcome to come by, if you want. By the manor. To see me, obviously. Not my parents. That could get uncomfortable quickly. But I can keep them out of the way. Only if you have time, though, I know you’ll be busy.”

“Not _that_ busy.”

“All right, then.” He glanced sideways at her. “I’ll owl you?”

“Mm-hmm.” Luna adjusted her hat, making the eagle hit Draco in the back of the head again as it flapped to keep its balance. “Oh, sorry. I have a study group to get to for Herbology, Draco. I’ll see you later.” And with that, she skipped ahead, swinging her bag beside her, the eagle rocking dangerously back and forth on her head.

Draco absently rubbed his left forearm and returned to his room to complete his weekend homework.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!


	14. Chapter 14

Draco returned on a bright, warm spring day to an empty house.

At first he thought he had just managed to slip in unnoticed. And just as well – he retreated upstairs to his room and took a few minutes to gather himself. Only after going back downstairs and searching the usual rooms did he begin to get concerned.

“Hello?” he called as he glanced into the dining room, though it was the middle of the afternoon. He raised his voice back out in the hall, putting his hand into his pocket and grabbing his wand. “Mother? Nippy? … Father?”

“Master Malfoy!” Draco turned to see Nippy racing towards him from the back of her house, her arms outstretched and a wide grin across her face. She skidded to a stop in front of him and leaned over, panting.

“What’s wrong? Where is everybody?” Draco demanded.

Nippy straightened, still breathing heavily. She pointed behind her. “Mistress Malfoy— _gasp—_ and Senior— _gasp—_ Master Malfoy are outside. Nippy was just— _gasp_ —fetching drinks when Nippy heard Master Malfoy’s voice—”

Draco frowned, but put his wand back in his pocket. “What are they doing out there?” Nippy looked confused, and rather than hear her stumble through some made-up explanation he left her there and headed to the back. The double-doors were opened wide. An old tapestry on the back wall swayed and rippled in the warm drafts of fresh air. He stepped out. A smooth, wide veranda of pale tile covered with a thin layer of mud and dead leaves spread out from the doors for several meters. The old, slated wooden overhang cast long, lined shadows over the ground. A single tiled pathway ran out from the veranda into the back gardens, around the fountain, and wound out of sight behind the towering, overgrown hedges. There used to be summer parties out here; Draco used to sit on the fountain’s rim with Pansy, or Theo Nott, and they would talk about school and politics. Voices and laughter would ring out long into the warm nights, and torches would send multicolored sparks into the air. There used to be furniture out here as well, of course – card tables for games, tall tables for wine and hors d’oeuvres, high-backed chairs and wicker chairs and an outdoor sofa or two. All of these had been sold off or packed away for months now, and only their ghosts remained with the shadows on the ground and half-remembered echoes of laughter.

Wind sent wet leaves skittering across the tiles and brought with it his parents voices. Draco shook off the memories and stalked out from under the overhang, past the fountain, and into the hedges, following the sound with his hands in his pockets. Vines curled across the path and blades of grass pushed up out of the ground where there used to be clear pathways. The main path headed for a gazebo hidden within an almost maze-like array of hedges. Draco stepped into the wide clearing. The old building was covered in half-dead rosebushes that sent their vines crawling up its sides and across its ceiling. Narcissa sat inside it, but she twisted her body to face the outside, her arms crossed on the ledge and her chin resting upon them, watching Lucius as he walked around it—actually, “strutted” was a more accurate term—one hand in a pocket, the other swinging a walking stick.

Draco stopped short, thrown. The scene before him did not match the run-over state of the garden, but the summer parties of two, three years ago. They were dressed like royalty, as if they had just come from a formal dinner with the Minister of Magic, or a wedding that had cost a couple hundred thousand galleons. And suddenly the words his parents were speaking registered.

“—ridiculous look of surprise,” Lucius was saying.

“She had quite the superiority complex,” Narcissa replied, changing position to rest her head on her hand. As she lifted her arm, the sun caught on the diamond-encrusted bracelet around her wrist. “For an ambassador from _Slovakia_ , of all places.” They both laughed; a carefree, mirthful sound that used to be made quite frequently by one of the richest, most powerful couples in the UK. But not here—not now—not for ages—

The force of the sound made Draco take an unconscious step backwards. His movement caught his mother’s attention. She immediately sat up and called out to him, holding out an arm over the railing of the gazebo. “Draco, darling! When did you get back?”

And Lucius, too, turned, saw him, and beamed as if there was nothing wrong in the world.

So they weren’t an illusion, or a hallucination. His parents really were dressed to the nines, his mother dripping diamonds and his father dripping an aura of power, in the middle of a ruined garden behind a Manor that had not really been theirs since the arrival of the Dark Lord, and behind a home that had been permanently marred by fear and blood.

Draco simply stood staring, completely lost for words and completely confused, and completely forgetting that Narcissa had asked him a question.

_They’ve gone mad._

“Darling?” she asked, standing and stepping quickly out of the gazebo. “Is something wrong?”

“Er,” said Draco, once again thrown as he spotted the heels his mother was wearing as she lifted a long, fitted skirt to climb down the few steps. The smell of a fragrance she never wore anymore wafted over him as she crossed the dirt and grass in those heels, her expensive skirt trailing in the grass. She took his hands. “Er, no,” he said at last, managing to come out of his stupor. “I’m fine. What are you doing out here?”

Still holding him by the hands, Narcissa stepped back towards the gazebo, drawing him behind her. “Well, it was such a lovely day, we decided to spend the afternoon out here. We’ve just had tea, and Nippy informed us she could make a fruit punch if we wished, and she’s just gone to finish it. I’ll have her bring you some sandwiches when she gets back.” Narcissa settled back on the gazebo bench and crossed her ankles beneath it.

“Um…no, thanks. I’m not hungry.” Draco, after hesitating a moment, sat down beside her and glanced over his shoulder. Lucius, too, climbed the steps, but he stayed in the doorway, resting his forearm on a post above his head, and still smiling in that oddly confident way. It was a pose of a confident young man that belonged on the cover of _Witch Weekly_ , not this man here.

Suddenly uneasy, Draco looked away and stared at a dead rose vine hanging down from the ceiling.

Narcissa sighed. “It is an especially beautiful day, don’t you think, darling?”

“Er, yes…?” Draco tried to think of a question that was more subtle than _What in Merlin’s name has gotten into you two?_ Or _Was your “tea” actually whiskey?_ Or simply saying, _Excuse me, but I need to make an urgent call to St. Mungo’s._

Lucius spoke before he could think of anything to say, still leaning in that doorway. “Personally, I find it hard to tell the difference, as you are with me every day,” he drawled.

“If you want my approval, Lucius Malfoy, you’re going to have to work for it. Flattery will get you nowhere,” said Narcissa in a voice that suggested the exact opposite.

“They’re called _compliments,_ my dear. They are not flattery if they’re true. And besides, I noticed that they already had gotten me somewhere.” Lucius rubbed the back of his neck and turned to look across the short expanse of the clearing, contemplating the scenery as if it were equal to the gardens of Versailles, and not made up entirely of uneven hedges and yellowing grass.

Draco felt distinctly uncomfortable. He stared very hard at the vine as an itching desire to be elsewhere began to crawl along his skin. Like most children, the flirting of his parents always made him feel a bit awkward. But now—here—after such a long time of drudgery—and no explanation accompanying their high spirits—it was just too enormously strange, too extraordinarily out of place. He felt like he was an intruder in a time capsule, a bit of gloom in this sunny gazebo. Not to mention his parents were out of line. In what way he wasn’t sure, but this simply felt…inappropriate. Ridiculous.

“Many more comments like that Malfoy, and what progress you made this morning will be completely depleted,” said Narcissa with another laugh.

What were they _thinking_? What year did they think this was? How old did they think they were? The discomfort changed to irritation; now he felt forgotten, almost discarded. Here he was, stressing about the Ministry and its doings, pondering how to best protect his home and his family, and his parents were laughing like newlyweds without a care in the world.

He didn’t notice Nippy had returned, her movements were so stealthy, until there was a cup of rosy red punch in his hand.

“Dear me, ground zero,” said Lucius dryly, still surveying the tall bushes as if they showed an expansive kingdom. “However shall I make it up, I wonder?”

“I’ll let you know when I think of something,” said Narcissa, taking a sip from her own cup.

“Do me a favor and be creative about it this time.” Draco was staring at the ground, but he heard the smirk. His face heated.

_They’ve gone mad._

“Lucius Malfoy! If you weren’t wearing your best coat right now, I would throw this punch in your face!”

“And I would deserve it, I have no doubt.”

The irritation and discomfort turned to anger. Draco put his cup on the seat beside him and stood. Again, his abrupt movement drew the gazes of both of his parents.

“Going already?” Lucius asked, and he looked genuinely surprised. Draco looked him in the eye, and for a brief moment he was ready to let the building pressure inside his mouth burst out.

 _Are you aware that there could be Aurors watching us right now?_ He wanted to ask. _That they’ve probably been haunting us inside our own house? Do you have any idea that I’ve nearly been arrested more than once, was nearly imprisoned once, that I’ve received death threats, was nearly killed in an alley, that you’ve allowed the wife you claim to love so much take the brunt of the aftershocks of your own actions for you?_

But he didn’t. He forced the words back, forced himself to swallow them, forced himself to keep his face from showing the slightest bit of malice. “I’m tired,” he said calmly. “I just wanted to come out here to let you know I was home.”

They didn’t stop him as he descended the the steps, walked across the grass, went around the hedge. Their voices started up a moment later, muffled by the hedges and blurred by the breeze.

*

Draco walked slowly through the large, silent rooms on the ground floor with the intention of searching for misplaced objects, but he couldn’t concentrate and ended up wandering aimlessly, running his fingers along polished, dustless picture frames and heavy drapes that were drawn back from the windows.

 _Why_ did he feel so hopelessly frustrated? Wasn’t this what he had wanted—for their family to stop being so gloomy and reserved all the time?

 _No,_ he thought despairingly. _I wanted to stop feeling repressed.  I wanted to feel like our old life was back, not for them to leave me here and go back themselves!_

He kicked a heavy footstool as he passed, stuffing his hands in his pockets and not even pretending to look for suspicious items anymore.

_That’s hardly fair, is it? Is that why they left everything to me? So they could stop worrying about it all?_

And that wasn’t even including the awful alternative—what if there was a reason they were acting so different. What if they had heard something…or worse, done something…that made them feel hopeful again—something bad…something that _did_ make them feel the way they had a few years ago…something like—

 _No!_ Draco stopped short in the middle of the front sitting room and clutched at his hair, face tilted upwards and eyes closed tight. No, it would not happen again. It _could_ not happen again. He was dead—yes, He _was_! Draco gritted his teeth as the familiar creeping sensation snaked along the skin of his left forearm. _He’s dead. I know He’s dead. Everyone knows He’s dead. I saw his body. Everyone saw it. Potter destroyed all the Horcruxes. Whatever they’re happy about—whatever’s got Father all excited it isn’t_ _Him._

_But what is it, then?_

Draco’s breath dragged in his lungs. Despite the sun that he knew was spilling into the room and making his eyelids glow red, he felt shadows of memories wrapping around his ankles.

_Why am I the one who’s got to figure everything out now?_

His scalp burned—his hair was still pulled taunt between his fingers. He wallowed for a moment in self-pity, and then remembered. Luna. Luna understood this sort of thing. She was doing the same sort of thing. Draco exhaled, his hands relaxing. He could write Luna and tell her…what? To complain about how angry he felt? No, that was pathetic. Draco’s hands fell to his sides and shifted his weight back and forth, attempting to shake off the sensation of darkness covering his feet. He could write her about coming over, anyway. They had already discussed that. He opened his eyes, feeling a bit better.

Like a punch to the gut, he saw where the shadows were coming from: the cellar stairs, innocuous and brightly illuminated by the afternoon sun, dashed those thoughts to pieces and strengthened the feeling of being chained down.

How stupid he was. He couldn’t ask Luna to come here. She certainly wouldn’t want to—they’d _imprisoned_ her here. She’d been tortured here. She’d been all but starved here, with the threat of death and worse things hanging over her head for months. Draco could barely bear to look at or think about the cellar for long: how on earth’s could he expect Luna to visit for hours on end in the same house where she’d been imprisoned?

*

The house was silent; the outdoors dark. Draco sat in his room, waiting for his parents to go to bed. They’d remained oddly cheerful throughout the evening. He couldn’t stand it. Being around them was like having an unreachable itch; un-relievable, no matter how much he squirmed.

Draco waited for several hours, long after dark and the silence had thickened almost past the point of endurance. He didn’t want any chance of running into Nippy –the less that the loose-tongued elf knew, the better. He spent the time reading his potions books and failing to halt the haunting progression of dreaded thoughts—they knew something he didn’t, giving him the estate was a method to keep his inheritance safe while again plotting against the government, giddy with the promise of sweet revenge and the long-sought reward of power and endless riches…

He left his room in the small hours of the morning, dressed in a gown and with stockinged feet, slipping through shadows with his wand unlit, as silent as a ghost, but prepared to claim insomnia if caught.

He started with the attics, where Nippy had said Narcissa had stored a box of random items. Unfortunately for Draco (but fortunate for the Malfoys as a whole), the multi-tiered towered form of the manor meant there were multiple small attics, making it significantly easier to hide things. He started with the one closest to his room.

“All right, Mum,” he muttered, lighting his wand for the first time, sending the darkest of shadows scuttling into corners and around the edges of boxes and broken furniture. “What is it you’re hiding from me?”

If he had simply searched for a box matching Nippy’s description, the search would have been simple enough. But as it was, with his new suspicions, the box was the least of his worries, and it took three night sessions of searches to investigate every nook, every cranny, every floorboard and ceiling slat—every place his parents might try to hide something from the ministry.

He found nothing.

No shady boxes, no odd letters, not even a dark artifact. The most exciting thing he came across was an old portrait of a great-uncle-something-or-other.

“Who’s there?” the portrait bellowed out from under a tarp on the second night, making Draco leap back several feet and barely restraining himself from setting the source of the noise on fire.

The days remained unbearable. He retreated to the outdoors, despite the creeping feeling that came from knowing the grounds were being watched, taking with him his textbooks and parchment and quill, studying for a lack of something better to do. He sat for hours doing nothing, cross-legged on the ground, dew soaking his trousers while he watched the wind flutter the leaves and grasses. When hunger and cold finally drove him back inside, he would tiptoe through the rooms until he found the ones that contained his parents, then retreat to one far away from them. Fortunately, he could always tell when they were coming because of their constant murmuring and laughing.

And then on the third night, as he emerged red-eyed and exhausted from the final, fruitless attic, he found a soft blue light shining in his face.

“Hello, Draco,” said Narcissa, leaning against the wall a few feet down the hall. “Trouble sleeping?”

Draco swayed slightly on his feet, his own wand spilling light onto the ground, too tired and sick in his stomach to try to pretend to be casual. He sighed. “How’d you know I was up here?”

To his surprise, Narcissa hesitated. “I…woke up, and I wanted a hot drink. I was in the hall in time to see you—well, hear you—going up the stairs.” Draco said nothing. “We need to talk,” she said after several more seconds. “Will you join me downstairs?” Draco nodded and followed her blue light down into the sitting room. Seeing it made him think of Christmas again, but it was odd, knowing that the world was pitch-black outside the thickly draped windows. “Sit down,” she ordered. “Start the fire if you can, I’ll get the tea things.”

Draco didn’t bother asking why she didn’t want Nippy here; he was pretty sure the reason was so that the house-elf wouldn’t listen in. She was probably getting one of her few hours of sleep right now. His best guess was that it was three in the morning. He got the fire going without difficulty, and Narcissa returned a few minutes later with a tea tray. “I hope chamomile is all right,” she said. Draco shrugged. She poured them both some tea.

Draco sat looking into the fire. If she wanted this conversation, she was going to have to speak first.

She did. “I know something’s bothering you. Please tell me what it is.”

“All right then. No more secrets. Deal?” Narcissa raised her eyebrows. Draco was surprised at his own boldness. “I’m looking for a box. A box that Nippy told me you had been filling with various objects from around the house.”

Narcissa looked extremely surprised, but not angry. “Why in Merlin’s name would Nippy mention a thing like that?”

“I asked her directly.”

Narcissa looked even more astonished. “How did you—”

“Potter told me what to look for.”

Tea sloshed over the edge Narcissa’s cup. She stared at him, then sucked in her breath and hastily set down her cup and saucer on the tray—but not before some of the hot liquid spilled onto her lap. She blotted it away with a tea towel. Draco felt slightly guilty, but only slightly. At last, she asked in a casual tone, “You’ve been talking to Potter?”

“Once,” Draco corrected. “A month ago. He said he thought Aurors may have been leaving things in the house.”

Narcissa nodded, slowly. “Yes. I noticed. It didn’t take long.” She looked into the fire and scowled. “I can’t imagine how they thought I wouldn’t notice changes within my own home.”

Draco could; there were many objects and art pieces in their home. _He_ certainly couldn’t keep track of them all.

Narcissa shook herself. “I tried to determine what sorts of enchantments were on them, but I couldn’t even determine that there were enchantments at all. There must be, though, so I hid them away. Just to be safe.”

“Where?”

Narcissa quirked her eyebrow at him. _Fine_ , her expression read. _I’ll humor you._ “I moved it to my room a week ago. The back closet, behind some old dresses.” She picked up her tea again. “Now that we’ve agreed to no secrets, may I ask if that’s all that was bothering you? You’ve been very tetchy ever since you got back.”

Draco fought back a smile, even though it wasn’t funny. She had caught him in his own demand for honesty. “You’re the ones who’ve been acting strange,” he countered. “I’m worried what has Father all…” he waved his hand helplessly. “…excited?”

There was that unexpected hesitation again. But this time Narcissa was smiling too. “Nothing in particular,” she said vaguely. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Draco intoned. “I can’t, Mother. Last time he was like this that I can remember was when he got Fudge elected. Or when he heard Potter was definitely going to Hogwarts and he thought I might be able to befriend the most powerful Dark Wizard since—You-Know-Who. Or when he was chosen to lead the whole Prophecy business. Or when—”

“All right,” Narcissa interrupted. “I see your point. But you don’t—you have to trust me on this one, Draco.” She ducked her head and stirred a spoon absently in her cooling tea. “You don’t remember our early years, so you can’t know that…how to explain it? This is good. This is _good_ , Draco. He’s always had his ups and downs, but it’s been years—decades almost—since he’s been like this.” She looked up. “This is normal. _This_ is what used to be normal.” She paused. Draco must have looked as confused as he felt because she kept speaking. “For the first time in an impossibly long time—longer than you can know, darling—I have my husband back.”

Draco began to regret his declaration of “no more secrets.” He didn’t think he wanted to know this. He didn’t want to know he couldn’t remember a father that did, indeed, used to be normal—not obsessive, not unstable, not blindly selfish, not consumed by the possibilities of dark magic and dark wizards.

He had indeed been looking on a scene from the past out in the gazebo.

He broke eye contact. “Oh.”

The fire crackled.

He swallowed. “So you’re sure there’s not been another—trigger? For whatever this is?”

“Draco, darling, I’m with him virtually twenty-four seven. Believe me, if there were anything else going on, I would know about it.”

“Right.” Draco scratched the back of his neck. “Guess I’ll—go to bed, now. Can I have a look at those things in the box tomorrow?”

“Of course. Oh, but before you go, darling—” Narcissa wedged a piece of paper out from under the tea tray. “This came for you earlier. You left the table so quickly at dinner I didn’t have a chance to give it to you.”

Draco took the letter. “Who’s it from?”

“I’m not sure. The owl was unfamiliar.”

Draco remembered with unease the hate mail that had nearly stopped coming, so he didn’t open it there. On his retreat upstairs, he nearly ran into Lucius.

“Oh, hello,” said his father. “What are you doing up?” And then before Draco could answer, “Is your mother downstairs?”

Draco nodded dumbly, not meeting his eyes, and continued up the stairs while heat swelled in his chest and Lucius called in his strange, cheerful, unfamiliar voice. “Cissa, Love, are you down here? Draco’s up as well, seems like none of us can sleep tonight.”

Draco didn’t bother lighting his wand, wishing the darkness could swallow him up.

Dear god, why did everything always make him so _angry?_

When he got to his room, he listlessly opened the letter, prepared to throw it in the fireplace or blast it into smithereens if necessary. He needn’t have worried, because the writing was perfectly friendly—a little too friendly for his taste, in fact.

_Draco,_

_I hope you’re doing all right. You may have forgotten, but you said you were going to invite me over at some point. It is a little rude of you to not say anything at all._

_I would invite you over here, of course, but it’s still necessary that Daddy doesn’t see you just yet._

_Please answer soon. I’ll drop by for tea sometime anyway, if that’s all right._

_Luna_

Draco flopped back on his bed. “Oh, bollocks,” he said despairingly to the ceiling.

*

Luna had her suspicions. She tried not to, because people were too complicated and too easily misinterpreted and too easily hurt. But she couldn’t _help_ having her suspicions. She could only choose firmly to not act on them.

She wasn’t too surprised when she didn’t get an invitation from Draco, just because that was a very…Draco thing to do, though it wasn’t a very friendly thing to do, and they were friends. He simply wasn’t very good at it. On purpose or not – she didn’t know which. So a letter to correct him seemed the best thing to do.

But then his reply came so quickly and firmly.

_Luna,_

_By all means, come over to tea. Two o’clock. Sharp. Or things could get uncomfortable. Write me if you can’t come._

_Draco_

And that’s when the suspicions began to nibble away at her—that either he was planning something (another very Draco thing to do) or not planning at all, simply charging ahead into the unknown, riding a stormy train of emotion (also a very Draco thing to do). Both things seemed on the surface to be opposites, but also tended to end the same way when it was Draco that was involved: that is, in some sort of explosion.

 _That’s not fair,_ Luna scolded herself as she folded the letter up. She was sitting in a beam of sunlight with the windows thrown open so she could hear the birds singing. Daddy was still in bed. She quickly stood up and retrieved a pendant from her bedroom. A small black rock, containing the dust from the tomb of an ancient king, it was supposed to be a good-luck charm. But it had belonged to her mother, and that special connection made it more of an essence charm—a way to keep her mother close and follow in her footsteps. But try as Luna might to think of another explanation for the wording of the letter, she couldn’t. She also couldn’t simply dismiss it and not think anything at all. The idea of an explosion brewing did not alarm her in anyway, only make her curious, and a little concerned for how it might end.

So, she went. At two o’clock sharp, she rang the bell at Malfoy Manor’s enormous doorstep, looking up its monstrous face. Though, in the light of a bright, sunny day such as this, it didn’t look half as intimidating as it might have.

Luna quelled an uncalled-for shudder.

“It’s over and done,” she softly said to herself, an oft-repeated mantra. “You’ve seen what happens to people who can’t forgive.”

 _But,_ said the niggling voices in the back of her head. _You can’t always forget even when you forgive, can you?_

Luna clutched the stone in her pocket, briefly, and held her chin high.

_Watch me._

She was smiling when the door opened. “Hello, Draco. No Nippy?”

Draco didn’t smile. “She’s out back,” he beckoned her inside and shut the door with a thunk. After a moment of absolute silence he added, “My parents are too. Come upstairs?”

“Of course…” Luna followed Draco as he turned around jerkily and made for the staircase. “Do they know you invited me?”

“No. Mother’s got it into her head that I should marry you, so I’d rather they didn’t.” He stopped abruptly, one hand on the railing, then continued with a rapid shake of his head.

Luna couldn’t suppress the jolt of surprise in her belly, and the taste of irony on her tongue. But she said placidly, “That makes sense. I’m a pureblood, after all.”

Draco’s pace slowed again as he glanced over his shoulder with a look of irritated exasperation. The expression had disappeared before she could work out what it meant. They reached the landing and Luna tried again.

“I hope they’re doing well?”

Draco snorted. “Oh, they’re doing well. They’re doing _extremely_ well. They’re doing almost too well to be dignified about it.” He stopped in front of a door and let out a small sigh, shaking his head again, then turning to face her for the first time. “Sorry. I didn’t—” he shrugged helplessly. “Forget it.” He led her into what looked to be a mostly-unused secondary sitting room. But there was a bright fire in the hearth, and a window from the side of the house was flung open, and the smell of pine needles and fresh air was rapidly overcoming the lingering vestiges of mustiness. A tray of tea things sat on a low table in-between the fire and a rather magnificent black-and-gold sofa.

“Tired?” Luna asked sympathetically as she sat down on one end of the sofa.

“A bit,” said Draco dully, shaking his head again, as if to clear it. Luna noticed, suddenly that tea was not the only beverage at the table, and she fought to keep a contemplative frown from her face as she became suspicious as to the reason of Draco’s unusual sharpness. She helped herself, and said nothing as Draco poured himself what, Luna thought, was not his first Firewhiskey of the day. “Long week,” he said by way of explanation.

Luna sipped her tea. “What happened?”

Draco gave her another bemused look that she didn’t understand. “Nothing,” he said, seemingly half to himself. “Nothing happened.” Then, without warning, he chuckled. “God, I get so angry at nothing anymore.”

Luna nodded understandingly. “I’m sorry.”

Draco chuckled again. “I knew you’d be.” He paused, tapping his finger on a glass. “Found those objects the Aurors have been hiding. Looked through them. Couldn’t tell anything from them. So there’s that.” Luna didn’t know how to respond. He chewed on his lower lip, took a swig from his glass and said in a more cheerful voice, “Tell me your favorite magizoology subjects.”

Luna was taken aback. “What?”

He grinned at her. “You know all about my potions projects, seems only fair you’d tell me about what you’re up to.”

She checked, but didn’t see malice or even sarcasm in his eyes. She unconsciously relaxed without realizing she had been tense ever since she’d stood on the front step looking up the tall, dark face of the ominous manor. “Well…all right, then.”

*

Draco only half-listened as he relaxed, legs stretched out in front of him, head resting against the back of the seat as he turned to look at Luna. The Firewhisky curled its warmth around his fingers and toes and the fire heated his face.

He was unsure how long they had been talking; Luna had spoken about her research in Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures and her studies with Madame Pomphrey, and then they’d compared notes about their experiences in those same classes, and she’d shown him her sketchpad, which she’d brought, with numerous detailed animals and plants drawn in it, and Quidditch had been mentioned, and then Buckbeak had come up and—somehow—the entire incident of Draco’s mostly-faked “disability” in the weeks following the incident struck them both as extremely funny. Draco hadn’t thought about it for years, and now, even with the prick of guilt that came with it (though he still thought Hagrid as a teacher was rubbish), the mental image of his thirteen-year-old self’s theatrics that any half-wit would have been able to see right through caused more amusement than embarrassment.

“I’m glad the thing got away,” he’d admitted. “I was such an idiot.”

“All third-years are idiots,” said Luna generously.

Now they’d come full circle, and the sandwiches were gone, and Draco had most certainly drunk a little more than was good for him, and she was back to talking about animals.

Her glass rings flashed as she waved her hands, animating the legendary leap of the crumple-horned snorkack. Her wide eyes laughed and the red light of the fire made her look flushed. She curled her legs up and propped her head on her hand, resting her elbow against the arm. She tapped her rendition of what the snorkack must look like with an air of finality. Story finished, she looked back at him in that direct, unembarrassed way.

 _It worked,_ a small part of his consciousness said. _You knew she’d come when you asked. You knew she’d make things better. And now look at you._

Somehow, the uncharacteristic happiness of his parents wasn’t bothering him anymore.

“You’re smiling, Draco.”

“Mmm.”

“Are you feeling better?”

Draco just smiled in response, and she smiled back, gently. Her lips looked soft, flushing pink in the light. They were already sitting fairly close—her drawn-up feet were nearly touching his thigh—so, acting on an urge that had been building for several minutes now, Draco sat up, reached out, touched her cheek, closed the remaining distance and kissed her.

Luna sat still. He’d been right; her lips were soft. So was the warm, creamy skin of her cheek. Draco released her and sat back, leaning with his arm over the back of the sofa. Luna’s smile was gone. She stared at him with wide eyes. Draco smiled again, drowsily.

Luna twisted the ring on her finger. “That wasn’t very polite.”

Draco frowned. “What?”

“If you’re going to kiss a girl for the first time you should let her know it’s coming first,” said Luna, her forehead creasing.

Draco didn’t know if he should laugh in bemusement or snort in irritation, so he did neither. “…oh.”

“Haven’t other girls told you that?”

Draco shifted, his frown mixing with upturned lips. “No. They’ve never complained before.” Luna’s frown seemed to deepen. Draco felt put-out. Luna was not supposed to be so…unaffected by his kiss. “Er, not that I’ve snogged that many. Mostly Pansy.”

“Oh yes, I remember you two were together. How is she, by the way?” Luna tucked some hair behind her ear and smiled again. Draco didn’t want to talk about Pansy. He didn’t want to talk about anything, think about anything. He wanted to stay in this warm, comfortable, unworried, untouchable space forever. He watched her hands, the delicate fingers twisting what was probably extraordinarily soft hair. Dark lashes framed her eyes as they glowed a deep auburn, rather like her hair in this light. He could see his reflection in them. They were like magnifying glasses. “Draco?” her voice broke through his thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“How’s Pansy?”

“No idea,” said Draco carelessly. “She hasn’t spoken to me since I put her godfather in prison. She hates me, like everyone else. Have I ever told you you’re pretty, Luna?”

Luna’s magnifying-glass-eyes blinked slowly. “No.”

“You are. And your skin is very soft.”

That little puckering, confused frown threatened to break her smile again. “Thank you.” Why did she have to be so polite and…and…unflappable? Didn’t she realize what he was saying? Simultaneously frustrated and amused, Draco looked at her lips again. He sat up and instead of leaning, he moved closer, until his thigh touched her up-tucked bare feet. He ran his fingers along her forehead to a sunflower pin and pulled it out. Her hair fell over her face, where she watched him, without moving and without expression. Draco touched a soft, tangled hair, fingering a lock. He smelled her fresh strawberry perfume. He looked at her mouth and bent down.

Luna moved quickly. Her hands were against his chest, pressing him back. Draco would have been annoyed that she had stopped the kiss, but he was too distracted by the sensation of her hands touching him to care.

“Draco,” said Luna, and her smile was gone again.

“I’m going to kiss you.”

“Draco, you’re tipsy.”

Draco smirked and half-shrugged. “Only a little.”

The pressure on his chest increased. Luna was trying to push him back but he didn’t move. “Draco.”

“Don’t you want to kiss me?”

Luna’s pretty lips tightened. “That’s not the point.”

Draco grabbed her hands and they felt hot. He smirked, pulling her hands away and darting in. Maybe it was the alcohol inhibiting his balance, or maybe Luna just caught him off guard, but she moved incredibly fast. Her hands slid out of his and she shoved him—not back, but sideways, at the same time rising to her feet.

Draco found himself sprawled on the floor, leaning back on his hands, his head swimming, and Luna standing over him. The warmth was gone.

“Draco Malfoy!” she shrieked, her soft voice loud and grating. Draco blinked at her with his mouth open. He had never heard her sound so angry before. “You’re drunk,” she said. “And you are not going to kiss me again, understand?”

“I—”

“If you want to when you’re sober, ask me and I’ll think about it. But not until you’re sober.” She turned around and with uncharacteristically quick, jerky movements she gathered up her sketchpad, snatched her pin from the floor, and stalked from the room.

Draco fell back on the floor, listening until he heard the front door open and close.

He balled up his fists and pressed them against his closed eyes. “God damn it.”

He didn’t know how long he lay there—he may have even dropped to sleep—when a voice spoke above his head.

“Master Malfoy?” The voice sounded unsettled and aghast, as if wondering what on earth such a magnificent creature such as Draco Malfoy himself was doing lying on the floor, mussed and flushed, when there was a perfectly good sofa right next to him.

He was not in the mood. “Go away.”

Nippy’s footsteps immediately retreated, but as she left she said, “Nippy only came to say that there is a letter for Master Malfoy, and Nippy put it on the floor by his head.”

Draco opened his eyes and sat up, snatching eagerly at the scroll, hoping that maybe it was a word from Luna saying that—

No, it was from Hogwarts. Apprehensive, Draco opened the letter. It was a struggle, as his fingers kept fumbling with the seal.

_I drank too much. God damn it, I drank too much. What was I thinking? Why did I even—?_

His thoughts about Luna were momentarily chased away as he unrolled the parchment to find Slughorn’s handwriting within.

_Dear Draco,_

_This is a fine piece of work that you’ve given to me. It is so unexpected as to almost be absurd—but certainly an exciting prospect! I know you’ve no need to know this now, but I wanted to tell you right away that you may begin work as soon as you return to Hogwarts. I will gladly oversee your process, and I place myself and my resources at your disposal._

_Sincerely,_

_Professor Horace Slughorn_

Draco grinned crookedly; he knew this was good news, but he couldn’t help feeling a sickening pang as he wished Luna that had been here when it was delivered. His smile faded, hearing again Luna’s voice in his ear screaming his name in anger.

“Damn it,” he muttered again, slumping over back onto the ground, the Hogwarts letter crumpled in his hand, all the possibilities that had seemed so likely and unstoppable suddenly quenched. Back to square one. Square zero. Square negative-one. He stared at the fire. It blurred, and he blinked hard to force it to clear. “Stupid,” he told himself. “ _Idiot_.”

Had he wanted to kiss her before this afternoon? He thought back, couldn’t think of a time. God damn it. Now what must she think of him? The one thing that he had decided last night when he wrote the reply to Luna, defiantly, that he could cling to—his parents could do whatever they wanted, he didn’t care, _he_ had someone else he could rely on, who understood him—stupid. He glared at the Firewhisky, even as that same small part of his consciousness poked on him and said, _it really isn’t the alcohol’s fault._

Either way, clearly the solution was to drink some more, Draco thought grimly, seizing the bottle. His schoolchildren-parents probably wouldn’t even notice if he didn’t come down for dinner. It wasn’t a sleeping potion, but…well. It was better than nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo, people!
> 
> If you're still here after me being gone so long...thank you! And I'm sorry. I had an unexpected health crisis that lasted for several months. Not life-threatening, but very draining, which left very little energy for doing anything other than what was absolutely necessary. However, I am recovered now, and hopefully I can get back to frequently updating.
> 
> And as I've said before (but its worth repeating here), you needn't worry about me abandoning a fic. If I ever abandon one, I'll say it outright so no-one is left hanging. Otherwise, you can assume I'm just taking a reluctant hiatus for one reason or another. 
> 
> Also, is this the most awkward Easter holiday break Draco could have possibly had or what?


	15. Chapter 15

The last week of the Easter holidays was a new study in torture. Draco was running low on his potion and his careful rationing allowed the return of some nightmares. Not enough to keep him from getting enough sleep at night, but enough to keep him in dread of going to bed. His parents retained their cheerfulness, but Draco didn’t feel anger anymore. He watched them as he would watch strangers on the street, or the subjects of a play. Removed and disinterested and slightly aching, the world gaped utterly black and hollow, and for the first time he seriously considered what would happen after leaving Hogwarts.

What on earth was he supposed to do then?

He had no interest in reading, or investigating, or trying to put any more energy into protecting or saving anyone. He didn’t have anywhere to go after Hogwarts, and he didn’t have anyone left. Might as well get used to it. He didn’t even bother trying to shake off the shadows from the corners or from the cellars that crept around the manor to invisible tangle around his ankles.

The day before his return to Hogwarts, Draco sat trying and failing to read the most recent edition of the _Quibbler;_  madness written on paper just wasn’t the same as it standing in the room with you, smelling of springtime and hung with trinkets like some bizarre Christmas tree _._ And then pushing you over, screaming at you, and leaving without a second glance. And then the Manor was just empty and depressing and there wasn’t anything to look forward to once you’d ruined everything—

The door burst open. “Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy, lovely day, isn’t it?” Peasegood swept unannounced into the room, beaming, looking fit to burst with cheerfulness.

Draco glanced at the window automatically. It was pouring rain. Nippy entered close on Peasegood’s heels, looking angry and apologetic and out-of-breath. Peasegood gave Draco a nasty smile. “Just a cursory wand-check, if you please.”

Draco didn’t have it on him. He rose without saying anything and left to fetch it from his room. Peasegood made as though to follow, but Nippy planted herself in front of him and said loudly, “Would Mr. Ministry Wizard like Nippy to bring him a drink?”

Peasegood stopped, then said, “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” and followed Nippy back into the sitting room. Draco smiled to himself for the first time in days. The house-elf was growing on him. There were frequent displays of her increasing confidence every day as she began to realize she could intuitively determine what her master wanted and take initiative without his needing to say a word. Which helped, because he didn’t feel much like talking these days.

He brought the wand back to Peasegood, who was already halfway through a glass of the Malfoy’s cheapest wine.

“Excellent,” said Peasegood cheerily, setting down his glass. “Gearing up to go back to Hogwarts, I suppose? Finish up your school year, all nice and tidily? Plan on coming back here to live out your days, skulking in peace?”

Draco smiled grimly and said nothing. This seemed to please Peasegood. Draco didn’t care. He made many other snide remarks during the check, including a long speech how his wand didn’t seem to be seeing much use lately and a “friendly” warning that it might grow old and lazy if he didn’t find some way to use it when walking in circles around this Manor for the rest of his life. Perhaps he could use it to rearrange furniture every day or so?

Draco looked out of the window at the rain and pretended not to hear. Peasegood, finally tiring of his silent disinterest, packed up his things, finished the wine, and left with Nippy close behind him.

 _It’s no good,_ Draco thought to himself on the train ride back to Hogwarts. _Why bother trying?_ Based on previous evidence, he knew that if he apologized to Luna they might—just might—be able to get back on the right track. Whatever the “right track” was. But this would be yet another major apology he would have to make, and he was getting tired of it. _She doesn’t deserve this._

Why she kept forgiving him, he didn’t know, but they couldn’t keep doing this. He was just digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole of debt he could never repay—not with a life shut up in an old prison of a Manor. It wasn’t like their friendship would last much longer anyway—just a few short months, and then she would be working and he would be hiding and their paths would have no reason to ever cross again.

Still, he may have decided to try again, the loneliness was so poignant, the air so dank and heavy the moment he stepped into his room in the Slytherin dormitories and knew he was friendless again. The old desperate, intense, practically frantic ache for company returning. The old, hollow feeling that something far distant and long dead was laughing at him, touching the imprint on his arm. But no.

_She doesn’t deserve it._

He took a deep breath, organizing his potion notes, checking his textbooks, ensuring that none of his protective enchantments had been tampered with during the break.

_One more apology._

He rehearsed it in his mind over the next few days, watching for a moment to catch Luna in relative privacy. He did not go to the clock tower. That was her space, as far as he was concerned. She went there to be alone. He wouldn’t bother her there, he wouldn’t eavesdrop, and he wouldn’t harass Ginny Weasley.

He began working out with Slughorn the best plan for attempting to create his potion, working through the possible hazards and the safest way to proceed, making lists and diagrams to determine the order in which to mix ingredients, and in what quantities, and for how long to stew each one—

He almost enjoyed this. In any other circumstances, he would have. The life seemed to have gone out of everything else and he moved about in a half-sleep. He nearly ran into Jamie Greengrass one day in the hallway. “Oh. Sorry, didn’t see you,” he’d said automatically. Jamie had stopped short and, inexplicably, stared at him, his eyes slowly widening. Draco went on without thinking anything of it.

The potion was the only thing other than sleep that he could lose himself completely—and potion theory didn’t include nightmares.

He only meant to find Luna in an uncrowded room, unengaged in conversation, not completely alone—but a few days after the start of the term he spotted her through a window walking over the grounds in-between classes. He hesitated only a moment, then wheeled and clambered back down the stairs he’d just climbed. It took him a while to find her, sitting between the Whomping Willow and the Forbidden Forest, facing away from the school, hugging her knees to her chest, her robes spread out behind her like a cape, and her feet bare. She sat perfectly still with her back to him, seemingly doing nothing.

It was going to be abrupt, no getting around that, so Draco marched up until he was beside her—not so close as to startle her—and said, “I’m sorry I’m an asshole. That’s all.” The plan was to simply turn back around and leave, but Luna ruined that. She glanced towards him, and the sight of her face slapped all plans from his mind. He should have said a million different things, but what came out immediately, automatically, was a shocked “What’s wrong?”

She’d been crying. She wasn’t at the moment, but her eyes were red and watery and a few stained streaks were on her cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” Draco repeated, alarmed. He’d never seen evidence of Luna crying before. “What’s happened?”

Luna turned her face back towards the forest and rested her chin on her knees. “Nothing,” she said softly. “Nothing much.”

Still without thinking about what he was doing, without considering that he was doing the exact opposite of what he had just fiercely told himself he was going to do, Draco closed the distance between them and sat beside her. He sorted through what he could possibly say next, tried to think of someone who would have tried to hurt her, wondered what he could do. He wasn’t supposed to do Dark magic, but his wand had just been checked—if he hexed or cursed someone now, they might not find it next time—

Luna spoke again, still softly. “Daddy’s gone to Kent.” Draco said nothing, not understanding. She continued. “Well, I sent him. In a way. I’d thought about it before, but I didn’t think—I thought he’d be happier at home. With me. But he mentioned it, just suddenly, said he thought it might be good for him.” She rubbed at her eyes and looked at him. He still didn’t understand. Luna seemed to realize this because her gaze fell again. “There’s a health center in Kent. Specialized. More so than Mungo’s, because they’re a general hospital. They take care of everything, you know?”

“Oh.” Draco’s word was heavy. “For how long?”

She shrugged; her hair fell past her face. “I don’t know. Maybe just for a short time. Some patients…some stay there for good.”

Draco felt like he’d been punched. “I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be.” Her voice was still the same; slow, soft, nearly unemotional. “I shouldn’t be either. I would go with him, after leaving Hogwarts, but…” she paused for a moment. “But we can’t sell our home; it was Mum’s and she loved it. And we don’t have money to buy an extra in Kent for me to live in.”

Draco waited. When he was sure she was done, he asked, “When did this happen?”

“Just before the end of the Easter holiday. He mentioned it when I got back from our visit. I sent a letter, thinking we would have to wait for months anyway, but they replied quickly—apparently a spot had unexpectedly been vacated…and he seemed determined. He was thinking so clearly I didn’t want to challenge him. He rarely gets to make his own choices anymore.”

A gust of wind blew over their heads and into the forest, rustling the trees and pushing clouds over the sun. Behind them, the Whomping Willow groaned.

For the first time, her voice changed. It got lower, so soft he almost didn’t hear it over the wind. “I can visit as often as I like. He can even come back for visits. We can stop any time. We can send all the letters we like. It isn’t like we’re being separated. This is good for him. He wasn’t getting better at home.”

Draco recognized this. This was rationalizing, trying to talk oneself out of grief, using logic to convince emotions to change. It rarely worked. He knew this from experience. He still couldn’t see her face (the wind began to blow her hair, making an even larger curtain than there was before), but she had drawn her knees up closer to herself, clutching them with her arms.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “If I hadn’t—been so stupid, I might’ve—” he trailed off, uncertain how to finish.  _Helped you somehow instead of wallowing in my own self-pity,_ he wanted to say.

“What?”

He blushed. “Tea. When I—you know.”

“Oh,” she said in the same distracted, unemotional tone. “That. It doesn’t matter.”

Draco wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or hurt that it apparently didn’t matter. They sat there in silence for several more minutes. The air grew cold and it grew darker as more clouds covered the sun. Draco had a sneaking suspicion that they were both missing class. He didn’t move. Luna, at one point, sat up and rubbed at her face again. “I miss Mum,” she said, in a voice so soft he had to strain to hear. “When I was little, she told me my sadness was in my tears, and so all she needed to do to make things better was to kiss my tears away.”

Rain began to patter down around them, soft and gentle and heartless and cold. Draco pulled his robes closer around his shoulders, and briefly considered doing the same for Luna, because she wasn’t touching hers. But he didn’t. He could have tried a large water-repelling charm, but that felt just as invasive. And he didn’t want to cast it on himself while she was getting wet, so he didn’t. The rain came down harder, soaking his hair, making his robes weigh down with water, pulling at his shoulders. Thunder rumbled quietly in the distance.

He licked his lips, desperate for some way to change things for the better. Something. _Anything._

“Is there anything I can do?”

Luna raised her head, turning to look at him again at last. To his astonishment, she was smiling. Crying and smiling at the same time, tears clearly welling in her protuberant eyes even as the rain and wind whisked them away.

“Draco Malfoy, that is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

*

They went inside as the bell rang—they had indeed missed an entire class period—and received several stares as they trooped, drenched and trailing water, through the front hall. Students surged around them, giving them a wide berth. Luna apologized for keeping him out in the storm, Draco said to forget it, his stomach swooping not unpleasantly, and they parted ways to go change.

He went back to eating at the Ravenclaw table, and unsurprisingly, Ginny often joined them now too, both at meals and while studying. They sat with Luna sandwiched between them like a protective barricade. Withdrawn and tired, she somehow continued working on the Quibbler in addition to her schoolwork. She let Ginny read what she wrote, but sticking to her previous statements of “You aren’t a very good editor, Ginny” she only let Draco edit for spelling and grammar. When Ginny spoke to her in a low voice about getting help, she replied listlessly, “Bilius found an intern. So she’s helping now too. But I can’t abandon this.”

Ginny glanced at Draco across Luna’s bowed head, and he knew that she had also heard the unspoken phrase. _Like I’ve abandoned Daddy._ Or, worse, _Like Daddy’s abandoned me._

Michael Coroner kept trying to make conversation with her from across the table, but Ginny finally glared at him so fiercely from behind her friend’s back that he stopped. Draco felt a little sorry for him; he had clearly only been trying to make her feel better, though he didn’t know what was wrong, and his efforts weren’t helping.

When he wasn’t with Luna, snatching a few hours’ sleep, or studying for regular classes, Draco was in the dungeon in an old storage closet that Slughorn had told him he could clean out and use. He had moved his notes down from his room, and now the walls were being slowly wallpapered with long, curling rolls of parchment. After a five weeks of feverish work, he was beginning to get his first results.

*

On May 2nd, 1999, Draco Malfoy did not leave his room. The decision to do so was easy; he didn't have a death wish.

*

Color began to filter back into school. Luna gave the credit to Draco, Ginny, Madame Pomphrey’s pick-me-up potions, and her mother’s talisman, which she carried in her pocket. No matter how much she mulled over what she could have done, she landed on the same point: she couldn’t have done any better. There were no good choices in this situation as far as she could see.

“Sometimes,” Ginny had said wisely, and soberly, “Life just sucks.”

She ought to be grateful, really.

As she came back to herself and the world became interesting again, she became curious about what it was Draco was doing, shut up in the dungeon. So on one rare free evening, five weeks after the beginning of term, she ventured down the chilly steps. The doors down here were all thick, large, bolted slabs of wood with no windows, but she found Draco’s rather easily – it was the only one with light peeping around the edges. Absently fingering the talisman in her pocket, she rapped smartly on the door.

A few moments later, it cracked open just barely wide enough for one of Draco’s eyes to peep through. Seeing it was her, he opened wider.

“What’re you doing down here?”

She stood on tiptoe to peek behind him. “I wanted to ask about your potion.”

“Oh,” he said, sounding surprised, but pleased. “Come in, then, I guess.”

He opened the door wide enough for her to enter, then threw all of his weight into shutting it firmly. Inside the small space was an enormous workbench. It nearly reached from wall to wall, only just barely leaving room for the door to open. Underneath it was a small stool and a few crates filled with various odds and ends she couldn’t make out in the shadows. On it sat a large assortment of ingredients and three different cauldrons, all in various stages of steaminess, thickness, and color—one a silvery grey, one a deep blue, one a lighter blue. The steam made the air very thick and hot, to the point where all of the parchment on the walls—covered with different-colored inks, scratchings-out, and recalculations—were slightly bubbly and sticking to each other. Squeezed into one corner was a very small, but very detailed timetable, half-filled out. Draco himself looked a little worse for wear—eyes bloodshot, ink on his fingers and (somehow) his forehead, hair plastered to his skull, his clothes sticking to him even more than the scrolls were sticking to each other. His robes were crumpled the corner just behind the door. In this heat, most people would have had their sleeves rolled up far past their elbows. Draco’s arms were completely covered, the cuffs of his sleeves buttoned tightly around his wrists.

Luna shrugged off her own robes as Draco gestured to the cauldrons. “Making headway,” he said, an excited smile on his tired face. “I think it’ll work. I was able to try one just last night—don’t give me that alarmed look. Slughorn-procedures-approved and everything. Of course I can’t actually test it here, but the effects seem to be working.”

“What effects are those?” Luna peered at the three cauldrons.

“Well,” Draco rubbed his palms on his trousers. “The idea originally was to somehow replicate a Patronus charm. I figured out rather quickly while working on the theory that the idea was impractical. I can’t turn someone into their own Patronus—the entire point of a Patronus is that it’s separate from the castor, so it can be used as a shield from Dementors, as a messenger, and so on. So I tried a different track. It’s not really a Patronus anymore, not a way to chase Dementors off. It’s more of a…Dementor mask. A way to hide, but not invisibility. It changes...how you see the world, in a way. It changes how they sense you. I got the idea from Animagi.” He hesitated, gesturing vaguely at the parchment on the walls. “It’s a bit hard to explain.” He looked down at her as she bent to observe the cauldrons. “You could try some, if you want.”

“Is it safe?”

His mouth quirked. “I wouldn’t be offering it to you if it wasn’t. Don’t know if it’ll work against a real Dementor, of course, but it isn’t dangerous. I have other variations I’m working on, but I quite like the effects of this first one, to be honest.”

“All right then,” said Luna, extremely curious. _Change how you see the world?_

“Really?” Draco looked surprised and pleased again. He reached behind one of the cauldrons and brought out a small vial. It was filled with a very dark grey liquid. He swirled it, uncorked it, and held it out to her. “Don’t drink it all,” he warned. “Just put a bit on your finger. It’ll just last a few seconds that way.”

The potion was the consistency of water, so Luna just touched the tip of her finger to the surface in the vial while Draco held it and licked it away. A pleasant peppermint-lavender taste spread across her tongue.

“That’s quite nice—” she started, then stopped. Something was wrong with her vision. She had a shudder of fear. The room wavered, then went dark. But she could still see—deep shadows and bright light, Draco looking expectantly at her. Her limbs felt statuesque, her mind utterly blank. She stepped back, back against the wall. The fear was gone. She just felt heavy—her body, her mind, as though everything was dragging her back and binding her still. Her brain catalogued the sensation, but the facts it collected simply fell away, ignored and unimportant. She didn’t care about them.

Every ounce of curiosity evaporated. She could still see Draco, and he was saying something, but it held no interest to her. Daddy came into her mind and went right back out again. She couldn’t breathe.

Then the sensation lifted, color filtered back into her retinas, and she gasped.

Draco smiled. “What do you think?”

“I don’t like it.” Now that she could think again—no, that wasn’t the right word. She could think perfectly clearly a few seconds ago as well, but… Her heart was pounding, goosepimples broke out along her arms, and tears threatened to well up behind her eyes. She swallowed.

“Really?” Draco looked surprised. He frowned at the vial. “I thought it was relaxing.”

“I don’t like it.” Luna repeated. She took another deep breath. “It’s awful.” Draco’s face fell and she hurriedly added, “I don’t mean it doesn’t work, I just—I just don’t like the feeling, is all.” There. That was the right word. _Feeling._ Then a horrible thought struck her. “What did you mean about Animagi?”

Draco put the vial back on the table. “You gave me the idea, back in Hogsmeade. When Animagi turn into animals, their emotions change. Become less human. Dementors can’t recognize them. That’s how Sirius Black escaped Azkaban, remember?”

Luna took another deep breath as her adrenaline surged for no apparent reason. _Dangerous¸_ her heart screamed _._ This felt dangerous. She didn’t know why, but her mind was whirling, her heart was fighting to jump from her chest, and she shivered despite the heat. “This doesn’t change emotions, Draco, it _removes_ them.” She expected him to protest, to contradict, to offer a differing theory. But he just looked curiously at her.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the idea.”

She took another deep breath and focused on settling her heartrate, finding the logic in the situation. “I suppose it’s better than a Dementor attack.” She nodded to the other potions. “Are they different?”

Draco glanced at them. “Yeah. They should be stronger.”

 _“Stronger_?” Luna couldn’t stop the shrill protest in her voice.

Draco looked at her, still puzzled. “I don’t understand what’s got you so worked up.”

Luna shook her head. She was sweating profusely now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…I think it’s wonderful, what you’re trying to do.” She paused, forced herself to think of the positives. “It really is much better than a Dementor attack.”

Draco was back to looking pleased. “As long as it actually works,” he mused. He stirred the contents of one of the cauldrons and then turned and made a note on a piece of parchment on the wall.

“Does anyone else come in here?” Luna asked. Draco shook his head.

“I lock it whenever I leave. Precautions. Slughorn can get in, of course, and anyone with advanced enough magic could, but it would take some pretty fancy spellwork.”

Luna nodded, picking up her robes where she had dropped them.

“Have you heard from your father lately?” Draco asked, writing on a different piece of parchment.

Daddy came into her mind again and this time, thankfully, he stayed there. She shuddered, remembering how easily she dismissed him only a few minutes ago. “I got another letter this morning. He’s doing fine. I might visit him this weekend.”

Draco nodded. “Good to hear.”

“I’ll go now,” she said, backing away. “I have a charms essay to write.”

Draco quickly set down the quill and turned around. “I’ll get the door. It’s heavy.”

*

As Luna left, Draco checked the timetable and winced; the dark blue would need a stir in a half-hour before he would be finished for the evening. He was exhausted. He had only gotten three hours of sleep last night—his nightmares were getting steadily worse, and he hadn’t been able to swipe anymore Lethe River water like he thought he’d be able to, once he’d started working on this. Slughorn was surprisingly strict when it come to the ingredient storehouse. He insisted he always accompany Draco to it, and now that all of the ingredients were catalogued he couldn’t swipe it without Slughorn finding out that some was missing.

A half-hour wasn’t long enough for Draco to go and do anything else, and he didn’t want to linger in the hall where _anyone_ could come on him by accident, so he sighed, slicked his hair back, shook the excess moisture from his hand, and pulled out the stool. He sat on it, leaned against the wall, and picked up his most recent sheaf of calculations to check for mistakes.

*

**_Year 7_ **

_It was the thing he lived in fear of most. He could deal with the screams, the mocking, the blood, the being ordered about by complete strangers who would as soon spit on him as look at him. He would gladly take all of that if he could only know that this thing would never happen again._

_He hadn't been sleeping. He sat awake in his room, relieved that the Dark Lord hadn't trusted him enough to go invade the Weasleys' wedding, and terrified about what he might hear next. But he still jumped and then doubled over with a weak moan of despair as it happened._

_His arm began to burn._

_He fought back the waves of crushing defeat; he moved to press two fingers to the skull. He felt as though he were fighting through a pool of molasses._

**_I just want it to end._ **

_But just before he Apparated, he realized he really didn't need to—he heard the Dark Lord give a shout from downstairs._

_"DRACO—"_

_He appeared in his own sitting room._

_"—MALFOY!"_

_He stood before a crowd; the air was rank with fear, and this large gathering of Death Eaters was deathly silent. His parents were in the back; Narcissa fought her way forward, her eyes fixed on him, frightened and confused. Why had the Dark Lord called him?_

_"Ah, Draco, so good of you to join us," said the Dark Lord in what could be called a pleasant tone. Draco, as so often happened anymore, had no voice, and no thought. He listened to Death and felt the despair rolling over him and snuffing out his breath. He slowly turned around to face the Dark Lord, putting the Death Eaters at his back while he stared at the ground with his wand held loosely in his hand, awaiting orders. "We seem to have had a misunderstanding." Draco's heart nearly stopped, until he realized the Dark Lord was addressing all of them. "You see, my time is not to be wasted on trifling matters of **failure**. You, Rowle, so careless, so weak, and so useless, shall be the means of instruction. Shall I demonstrate for you all the consequences of failure? DRACO!"_

_Draco started; he looked up, seeing for the first time that Rowl knelt in front of the Dark Lord, great blond head bowed, perfectly still. Draco's heart began to pound._

_"Draco, you shall be the instrument of instruction. Come, stand before me. Show us all what lies in store for the next person to fail me."_

_Draco's head pounded. **My Lord?** He tried to say, but no sound came out._

_" **Draco!** " Bellatrix hissed from behind him. " **Crucio** , Draco! **Crucio**!" And a firm hand shoved against his back. Draco stumbled forward. He should be grateful to his aunt, he knew. But he felt only the utmost loathing and fear as he suddenly understood: he was supposed to torture Rowle._

_Rowle didn't move. His head remained bowed. Draco briefly wondered what Rowle had done that was so terrible, but his curiosity was distant and fleeting. It didn't matter, and he didn't care. He just had to do the Dark Lord's bidding and then he could escape back into his room—perhaps he could faint and remain unconscious for a few hours. Draco lifted his hand. It shook._

_"Crucio." It came out in a whisper. Nothing happened. Draco's breath was stolen away, fear suddenly rooting him to the ground._

_He had never successfully cast the Cruciatus Curse on another human being._

**_Now is not the time for hesitation! Now is not the time for pity!_ **

_Draco tried again. "Crucio!" His voice was stronger. No, that was too generous—it was a whimper. His growing fear made the curse stronger, but not by much: a few sparks fell from the tip of his wand._

_"Draco," the Dark Lord's voice was very quiet. "Perhaps you do not understand the meaning of torture." His long fingers closed on Draco's shoulder._

_Draco began to panic. Death trickled down his shoulder, over his arm. He gasped. "C-crucio!" he cried again. His entire wand-arm was shaking now. A short stream of light; Rowle let out a gasp and flinched._

_It didn't matter. Draco couldn't mean it. He didn't care about Rowle. He cared about living. But he didn't want to torture this man. He couldn't force himself into it._

_"I see your education has been incomplete, Draco." Perhaps anyone unacquainted with the Dark Lord would have heard pity in his voice. But Draco felt paralyzed—this was not pity. This was unspeakable anger. "Perhaps you, yourself, need to learn the meaning of torture." The hand gripped him tight; it threw him forward. Draco fell on to his knees in front of Rowle. He felt rather than saw or heard the Dark Lord raise his own wand._

_Someone screamed. " **No, my Lord**!"_

_Someone gasped. " **Narcissa**!" _

_Draco flinched. His mother had flung herself forward; Lucius had grabbed his wife and thrown her to the side, falling on his own knees just a few feet away, holding up his hands, keeping his face down towards the ground._

_"You wish to contradict me, Narcissa?" asked the Dark Lord quietly._

_"Master," Lucius rasped. "I beg of you, forgive her, she does not know what she does—"_

_"No, Lucius, I believe she understands perfectly well." The Dark Lord waved his hand; Lucius flew to the side, colliding with several Death Eaters who pushed him away with angry murmurs. "Narcissa?" His mother got to her feet. She did not hold her wand._

_"My Lord," She folded her hands in front of her, inclining her head politely. She could have been inviting the Dark Lord to tea. "He is only a boy. He does not possess the skills you ask of him."_

_The Dark Lord looked from her to Draco. "He will," he said quietly. "Crucio."_

_Draco jerked back, but the pain did not come to him. He was confused only for a moment._

_Narcissa seized up like a stiff board, then she collapsed and her head cracked against their drawing room floor, and she jerked as if having a seizure, and her eyes rolled back in her head, and her voice was being torn from her breast in shattered, inhuman screams._

**_Horror._ **

_Draco wanted to die. Right then._

**_Horror._ **

_The Dark Lord withdrew his wand. "Draco?"_

_He stared at his mother, still on the ground, nearly level to him. She pushed herself to a sitting position. Her face grim and bloodless, except for a bright redness about her lips. She got up, slowly, and stood with her feet slightly apart, her hands folded in front of her again. And then she was down again, writhing and helpless, her dress tangled about her legs, her arms crookedly twisting, her fingernails scratching at the floor, leaving marks in the hardwood. Lucius was crawling forward, hands reaching out helplessly—Bellatrix kicked him over and held her wand to his neck._

_Draco was going to throw up._

**_No. No. Stop it!_ **

_He was on his feet. He had his wand out. He pointed it at Rowle, seeing strange colors and shapes dancing before his eyes and his mother's screams in his ears. He cried out, "Crucio!" Narcissa's cries ceased; Rowle collapsed face down, gasping again. But he did not writhe, or scream._

_Narcissa was on her feet._

_The Dark Lord was merciless. "Crucio."_

_She had fallen again; there was blood running out of the corners of her mouth._

_A blind rage overtook Draco. "CRUCIO!" he screamed in desperation and despair, and then it was Rowle writhing, it was Rowle screaming—Relief pooled through Draco, and a sickened satisfaction._

_He took great pleasure in the fact that these sounds were not coming from his mother._

_"That's enough, Draco."_

_He stopped, rage cooling, heart slowing._

_Dizzy._

_The Dark Lord paced around Rowle, his voice growing louder. "More, Rowle, or shall we end it and feed you to Nagini? Lord Voldemort is not sure that he will forgive this time. . . . You called me back for this, to tell me that Harry Potter has escaped again?"_

_The idiot. Draco stood thoughtless, careless, soulless, staring down without pity or hesitation or even nausea at the sobbing man on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lucius scrabbling on his hands and knees to Narcissa, who was again struggling to get to her feet. Draco was calm. "Draco, give Rowle another taste of our displeasure. . . ." His cold fingers clamped around the back of Draco's neck. "Do it, or feel my wrath yourself!”_

_And Draco stared down, and Lucius was pulling Narcissa back, as she clung to his collar, and he could feel the blood that had gone from his face and the cold barbs that were the Dark Lord's fingers on his neck, and he could feel an intense hatred and fear, never-ending fear, and hatred, and despair—and the Curse came from his wand almost without his needing to speak it._

_"Crucio."_

*

BANG!

Draco had fallen from the stool, which had shot out from under him as he jerked, cracking against the wall. He sat on the ground, breathing hard, feeling the room spin and his arm coming to life.

He tasted copper; he’d bitten his tongue. Draco swallowed, tried to ignore the crawling sensation in his arm. It would stop in a moment. He squeezed his eyes shut. It would. It _must._

He shuddered. He was extremely cold, his fingers and toes numb. He could still hear the screams, still feel the cold nail-like fingers on the back of his neck, the squirming, itching, possessive feeling of a foreign consciousness moving through his mind. Draco bit his tongue again, on purpose this time. Rich blood filled his mouth. He gagged, spat it on the floor. Bit it again. Anything to distract him…anything…

The room stopped tilting. He felt the heat of the room again, smelled the steam from his cauldrons. But his whole body was shaking, his heart was racing, and the mark—unseen underneath his clothing—still felt very alive. He got up shakily and checked the rightmost cauldron. Gave it a stir. Started back for his robes, eager to escape to his room—

He hesitated. Looked back.

A few moments later he sat on his bed in his dormitory, holding a small crystal vial filled with clear grey fluid. He rolled it around in his fingers, waiting. He wasn’t always reckless, after all.

But even after several minutes slowly ticked by, he still shuddered. He saw his mother being tortured when he closed his eyes. Felt the fingers, felt the slow, nightmarish burn that heralded unseen horrors.  Felt tears stinging his eyes, despair stinging this throat, and terror stinging his stomach, stirring it up into a nauseous roil. So he pulled out the cork of the vial. Luna had only had a small taste; he drank half of the contents.

Darkness fell immediately. It sucked out all life, all sensations, all joy, all love…all fears…all pain…all memories were just that…memories…not to be dwelt on, not to be disturbed....

The tension immediately left him. He still felt a sensation in his arm, but only in a distracted, slightly irritating way. It didn’t matter; nothing mattered. Draco barely had the presence of mind to cork the vial. Then he lay back on his bed, breathed deeply, and stared at the canopy over his bed without a care in the world, perfectly and completely, sweetly and wonderfully, dead inside.

*

They had tried the Patronus Charms again in class, seeing if there was any improvement from a few weeks off to practice. A few had progressed; Draco, of course, could do nothing. He had stopped trying.

 _Who cares,_ he thought, bored, as he twirled his wand and recited the incantation, his mind elsewhere, while quiet unoriginal jeers came from behind his back about how Dark Wizards couldn’t cast a Patronus. _I’ve got something better._ A vial, refilled and ready at a moment’s notice, was in his bag. Slughorn didn’t know he was carrying it around and he suspected it was against the rules, but he did it anyway. All-in-all, he still preferred his modified sleeping potion, but this emotion-deadening was the next best thing, capable of stopping panic attacks at a moment’s notice, whether they took place after waking after a nightmare, or whether they took place in the middle of the day. With just a small taste of grey liquid, he could cut off fear at its source. And everything else, but by this time Draco would much rather feel nothing at all if it meant there was no fear either.

Walking quickly down an abandoned corridor on his way to the dungeons after class, Draco turned a corner and found someone standing ahead of him. He stopped, raising his wand automatically, and then lowered it again. It was Jamie Greengrass. He stood in the middle of the corridor, arms hanging at his side, staring straight into his eyes. Like he’d been waiting for him.

Draco frowned. If it had been, say, Vanessa Travers standing there in this matter, Draco would have immediately readied a shield, prepared for an attack. But a first-year didn’t have any skills that would pose any sort of threat to him. So he waited for a moment. Jamie didn’t move. Draco cleared his throat. “What do you want?”

“I know who you are,” said Jamie. His voice quavered.

Draco noticed off-handedly that he must have grown slightly in the passing months; his robes were now too short for him. He raised an eyebrow. “Most people do. I would say I was as infamous as Potter is famous, but I’m not quite that arrogant.”

Jamie didn’t seem to recognize the dryness in his tone. “You’re the one who chased off Vanessa Travers in the hallway and took me to the hospital wing.”

Draco stared at him, startled, and not sure what to say. He finally dragged his eyes away, looking out the nearest window. The sun was beginning to set, sending shots of red and gold across the sky. “So what if I did?”

“Why did you do that?” Jamie was staring at him with something almost like hunger.

“Because I don’t like Travers and at the time I didn’t know you were Muggle-born,” said Draco. It was the truth, but that wasn’t why he said it. He said it to see Jamie’s reaction; the hunger vanished and instead, Jamie looked extremely hurt. Oh, Merlin. Making eleven-year-olds cry was not on Draco’s to-do list today.

“Why do you hate me?” Jamie asked, his voice a little higher and closer to a whimper than it had been a moment ago.

Draco scowled. “I never said I hated you.”

“The other Slytherins do. Lots of them, anyway. I know about the war. I read about it and my friends told me. Everyone says Voldemort’s supporters hate me.” Draco flinched, feeling a jolt of surprise that this tiny kid could speak the name with no trace of fear. Jamie was talking quickly now. “Especially you. His Death Eaters. Because I have Muggle parents. But I can’t help who my parents are, my parents can’t help who they are. What have they ever done to you?” His eyes were glistening now. “There’s nothing wrong with Muggles anyway.”

“All right,” said Draco, eager for this conversation to be over. “Good to know. You know your current events, at least. Try picking up a history book.” He turned around and hurried away.

Jamie followed him, his footsteps sounding rapidly behind Draco as he struggled to keep up. “I know about that too. How Muggles used to hunt down and kill Witches and Wizards—or at least try to. But Muggles now don’t try to kill you, because they don’t know about you, so why would you try to kill them? And why would you want to kill me? I have magic and I’ve never done anything to you!”

Draco didn’t reply, hoping his coldness would shake the first-year off, but Jamie must have been bottling this up for some time because he wouldn’t shut up.

“The older students warned me about you. Even before you were a Death Eater, they told you me you talked all the time about wanting Mudbloods to die and be expelled. Even the smartest one in the school, Hermione Granger. You wanted her dead. Why would you say that if you didn’t hate us?”

Merlin’s beard and stars above, he was talking about the Chamber of Secrets. This kid had done his homework. _Saying is so different than seeing._ “Sometimes,” Draco muttered, “I could throttle my twelve-year-old self.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t hate you, kid.” He didn’t. Jamie was irritating, for sure, and his blood was tainted, but that didn’t mean—

“Then why did you work for someone who wanted to kill me?”

Draco whirled around, scowling. Jamie skidded to a stop. Draco raised his voice. “The world’s more complicated than that,” he snapped. “It’s not black and white.”

Jamie stood up tall, hands in fists at his sides, glaring up at Draco with an astonishing lack of fear, considering everything he’d apparently heard from other students. “Wanting me dead is pretty black!”

“Wanting to not die isn’t,” Draco countered, gritting his teeth. “Now bugger off and leave me alone.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

Draco laughed—his old laugh, high and derisive. “Well done, gold star for you. Do you want a medal?”

Jamie held up his hand, fingers spread, displaying the back. “Why did you give me this?”

Draco looked at the ring. His stomach was churning in anger. “I don’t need it,” he spat, speaking this not only to Jamie, but to Slytherin house, to Hogwarts, to the Wizarding world itself. _I don’t need your labels, your approval, or your disdain._

Jamie’s face was reddening. “Well, I don’t need it either! Not if it’ll make me be like you!”

“Keep it,” Draco sneered. “You’ll never be anything like me.”

Jamie grabbed at the silver with his other hand as Draco shoved past him and walked away again. “I don’t want your stupid ring!” he shouted. Draco turned in time to see a flash of silver in the air, and then Jamie rushing in the opposite direction, head down, slightly-too-small Hogwarts robes billowing behind him.

The ring clattered on the ground, rolled in a wide circle, then came rattling to a rest in front of him. Draco stared at it, anger replaced with disbelief. Took one step forward. Then another. He knelt down, feeling caught in slow-motion, reached out his hand. Placed his hand over it, curled his fingers slightly. Then stopped, his hand over his old House ring. He remained like that, crouching in the half-dark, the sunset drifting through the windows. This small ring, this tiny piece of him, this thing that represented pride and cunning and competition and unstoppable ambition. He didn’t feel he cared for it any longer; the symbolism, the adjectives, none of it. He’d given it away and it had been thrown back in his face.

His fingers curled slowly into a fist, catching the ring in his palm. “Filthy mudblood,” he whispered. The words came out thin, meaningless, venomless, pointless. He stood slowly, shoulders slumped, the world heavy. He stood looking at the sloping ceiling of the arched corridors, the stone framework, the rock and mortar and suits of armor and ancient stone benches, all swimming with the memories of a hundred thousand witches and wizards.

All so pointless.

He took a step, then another.

His own memories lived here, but they didn’t belong to him anymore. Meaningless, pointless.

So pointless.

His feet dragged slowly, one ahead of the other, and he walked without meaning to, automatically, looking around at the walls and feeling nothing but a bewildered ache. Not his childhood, not his magic, not his blood.

Pointless.

He took the vial out of his robes and swallowed its contents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very words. Such write. So inspire. Wow.
> 
> (I dunno how I wrote this one so fast, but you're welcome, I guess?)


	16. Chapter 16

Luna was doing homework in the clock tower the week before exams when Draco popped his head up through the trap door.

“Question,” he said, slightly out of breath, and without prelude or greeting or waiting for her to finish writing her sentence. She set down her quill and looked up. “How likely do you think it is for the Patronus Charm to come up in NEWTs.”

Luna tilted her head. “I don’t know. But it is a quite popular charm at the moment. And the Ministry has been pushing for people to learn it ever since they lost all control of the Dementors.”

“Right.” Draco chewed his lower lip, looking at the sky through the clock’s face. Still standing on the ladder, he crossed his arms on the floor and rested his chin on them. “Damn it.”

“Still having trouble with it?” Luna ventured.

“Don’t know, haven’t tried it since the first day.” Draco straightened. “Well. Slughorn is liking how my potion’s going, so it shouldn’t matter in the long run, right?”

Luna frowned. Draco noticed.

“Look, just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean it isn’t useful,” he said grumpily, adjusting the strap of his bookbag.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” said Luna, thinking of but not speaking of the times she’d noticed him sitting listlessly and blank-eyed. “If you’re worried about your NEWTs, though…”

“I’m not _worried,_ ” he drawled. “I’m _irked._ I would have a shot of doing the best in that exam if it weren’t for the stupid charm. I wouldn’t put it past Croaker to put it in there just to spite me.”

Luna picked her quill back up. “I’ll help you with it if you like,” she said, beginning to write once more.

“I can’t do it,” said Draco shrugging. “No amount of practice will change that.”

“How do you know?”

Draco eyed her. “Dark wizard. Remember?”

“You’re not a dark wizard.” Draco snorted. Luna held up one finger, still writing with her other hand. “Not practicing dark magic,” she held up a second finger, “Not a dark wizard.”

Draco actually laughed. It didn’t even sound malicious. “Tell that to my dad ten years ago,” he said, grinning. She raised an eyebrow, not smiling back. His grin faded, replaced by a frown. After a moment he said in a completely different tone, “Fine, Lovegood. Tell you what. You can try to teach me to cast a Patronus. When I fail, stop treating me like I’m a saint.”

“No,” said Luna calmly. “I can try to help you with your Patronus, Draco, but I’m not going to treat you like a Dark Wizard unless you start acting like one.”

“Yeah, well,” he drummed his fingers on the floor. “Worth a shot.” He managed another crooked smile in her direction, then ducked back down the ladder, pulling the trap door shut behind him.

*

_Why did I agree to this?_

They were in a long-abandoned classroom that had gathered an obscene amount of dust. Outside the windows the sun was setting. Candles sat on the dusty tables, lending an unsteady yellow light to the room. Luna stood barefoot beside him, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up, wand out. “You know all the theory, I assume.”

Draco didn’t answer, still trying to remember. _Why did I agree to this?_ If he was honest with himself, it was a combination of feeling elated that Slughorn had approved of his progress, and feeling profoundly irritated that Luna refused to recognize him for what he was and a desire to challenge her and prove her wrong.

“So, you haven’t tried since all those months ago?”

But now, he was facing the very real reality that once she saw for herself he couldn’t do it, her view of him might actually change. He didn’t want that.

“Right.” Draco tapped his wand against his leg, nervously.

“Go ahead and try now, then.”

“Fine,” was what he said out loud. _You idiot, why did you agree to this?_ Was what he said internally. _I’ll just fake it._

“If you’re going to fake it like you have in class,” Luna added thoughtfully. “Let me know so we don’t waste each other’s time, all right?”

Draco turned his head to glare at her but she didn’t notice, smiling vaguely at the space in front of her, as if already reliving a happy memory.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The summer when he turned thirteen, he and Narcissa had gone on a trip to Bulgaria. That was a safe moment. He thought about the beach by the Black Sea, Vitosha mountain, how Narcissa had laughed at that play—

He opened his eyes. “ _Expecto patronum._ ” Nothing happened. Nothing even came close to happening.

Luna hummed thoughtfully. “Did you feel anything?”

“What d’you mean?” Draco asked, already feeling tired, and thinking about how he could be finishing up his final potion report right now.

“How did you prepare yourself before trying to cast it?”

“I thought about happy memories. What else.”

She twirled her wand in a circle. “Well, more than that. Did you picture it? Lose yourself in it? Try to recapture the feeling you felt in the moment?”

Draco blinked. “Er…”

“Try again,” Luna said. “Take your time. Don’t try until you’re filled up.”

“With joy and goodwill?” asked Draco sarcastically.

“Exactly,” said Luna firmly. “Now, try.”

He closed his eyes again, feeling stupid. He pictured the waters, the buildings. He pictured his mother standing under the overhang of the hotel, laughing behind her hands. He put himself in his thirteen-year-old-self’s shoes, holding the tickets in his hands, looking up and saying excitedly, _“We’re going to Bulgaria?”_

A feeling of – of not happiness, exactly, but contentment and nostalgia filled him. But as soon as it did, he became aware of it and the memory faltered.

 _“Is Father coming?_ ”

_Don’t think about Father!_

The memory greyed. Draco said quickly, holding to the vestiges of feeling, “Expecto patronum!” He opened his eyes. Still nothing happened. He scowled.

“I’ll go,” said Luna, not looking at all perturbed. “Let’s see…there was one time where Daddy took me to a Magizoology conference in Ireland. One of the biggest in the world. There were so many interesting people and specimens there.” She closed her eyes. Draco watched her face. A slow smile spread over it. “We were standing on a field watching a demonstration about lesser-known fire-breathing species…the wind was blowing, it was cold, and the sky was clear, and we were surrounded by people from all sorts of places, and the speaker was talking about Ragrorians and their trick with steam, and my socks were wet from dew, and then Daddy leaned over and pulled my hat down over the tips of my ears and held me in front of him with his arms around my shoulders— _expecto patronum!_ ”

Like a silent, slow-moving waterfall, silver fell from her wand, then bunched itself on the floor and leapt up into the air, bounding in slow-motion around the room. A beautiful, gigantic silver hare. Luna watched it, her eyes sparkling and alight with memory, her lips parted in a broad grin. Draco looked from her, to the hare, and back again. She held out her hand and it brushed against her fingertips and she laughed, then turned to Draco. The hare dissipated.

“Now you try,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I did,” said Draco stubbornly.

“Try again. What are you thinking about?”

“Trip to Bulgaria,” he muttered.

“You might need to find something stronger,” she suggested. “I was watching you. You didn’t really smile.”

“And smiling’s required, is it?”

 “No, but it’s a natural response to feeling happy,” Luna raised her eyebrows again. “Are you trying?”

“ _Yes,_ I’m _trying_ ,” Draco snapped.

“All right. Sorry.”

She watched him silently for several minutes as he tried and failed three more times.

“Satisfied?” he asked at last, frustrated.

Luna stood with her wand arm across her middle, the other rubbing her shoulder absent-mindedly. She didn’t answer at first, lips pursed, her gaze roaming around the room. Then, at last, she took a small breath and said, “What are you calling a happy memory, exactly?”

Draco rubbed his temples. “What are you talking about?”

“The happy memory. Are you happy in it? Were you happy at the time it was made?”

“Obviously.”

“Do you feel happy remembering it?” Draco opened his mouth to say _obviously_ again, but he hesitated. Luna continued. “Do you feel as happy as you did at the time?”

He couldn’t argue his way out of that one. “No.”

Luna nodded. “Harry told me, once, that you don’t _really_ have to feel happy about a memory. But you do have to feel powerfully. Do you feel powerfully?”

He didn’t know what she was talking about. “Er…no.”

“Try again,” she said simply. “Just try to feel powerfully. Then cast.”

He got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something like dread. He uneasily rubbed his left arm against his side.

“What’s wrong?” Luna looked curiously at him. “I’ll look away if it’ll help.”

“Nothing,” he said automatically, closing his eyes again. “It’s fine.” He didn’t recreate a moment in his head this time; he simply stood, thinking, wondering about strong emotions. What exactly—

The solution was so obvious it took his breath away momentarily.

_Stupid. But…maybe…_

He was tempted to peek through his eyes and see if Luna was watching him. “Actually,” he said after another moment, “It might help if you looked away.”

“All right,” said Luna agreeably.

He didn’t picture himself. Or his mother. Or any event in particular. He pictured Luna. But not just her standing still, he pictured her as he’d seen her two minutes ago—rising up onto her toes, lifting her wand in the air, eyes closed, face lifted to the ceiling, smiling and looking fit to burst with happiness. He pictured in a forest with blood-stained fingers, feeding skeletal black horses. He pictured her barefoot, raising her arms above her head and wiggling her toes in the dirt.

She was separate from everything. From the past, from his family, from the dark and the emptiness, from Draco himself. She was just…Luna. Feeling idiotic and exposed, Draco forced himself to not think of himself. Think of Luna. Standing with her arms raised, nearly flying, hair falling back over her shoulder, wearing a ridiculous headdress with silver butterflies, laughing and dancing like a fairy on the grass—

A warmth spread through him. He felt it flush over him. But then, almost like an admonishment, he felt a cold flare in the back of his mind, and his concentration broke and his stomach sank.

“ _Expecto patronum,_ ” he whispered, without planning to. He lowered his arm slowly and opened his eyes with a sigh. “It’s no use,” he said heavily. “I knew it wouldn’t be.”

“Nothing, then?”

He didn’t say anything. Luna came close to him again, looking concerned. She extended a hand. “Are you okay?”

He drew back. “I’m okay.”

As okay as he ever was. He didn’t look her in the eyes, had an insane urge to take out the potion he had in his robes pocket. He would have, if she hadn’t been standing there watching him.

Luna spoke again after a moment. “I think…” she stopped, thought for a moment more, then continued. “Emotions are complicated. I think that, what they really need, is this feeling of…hope. They need to give you hope for the future. Even if you can’t see it, maybe…remembering how things were once lovely, knowing that beauty still exists…”

Draco snickered. He hadn’t meant to. But something came bubbling up from his chest and he let it out in a harsh laugh.

“Magic is beautiful,” said Luna firmly. “You love your mother. That’s beautiful too.”

“Uh-huh.” That bubbling feeling was still in his chest, and it was beginning to burn. Draco turned his back on her, grinning and unable to stop, rubbing his eyes hard with the back of his hand.

“Draco, turn around,” Luna ordered. “Watch.”

Draco turned back and Luna planed herself beside him again, facing the empty center of the room. She lifted her hands. Threads of light spun from the end of her wand. It Draco a moment to realize they were thin threads of water. They wove around each other, creating a large water-webbed sphere hovering in the middle of the classroom. The threads danced and twisted like graceful gliding serpents. Luna’s lips pursed in concentration, and suddenly each thread lit up in a different color, sending crystal rainbows across the floor and Luna’s hair. The threads spun together in a thick rope that swam to the ceiling, then dove towards the floor, exploding into thousands of threads again an instant before hitting the floor. The threads spun to the walls, swirling their way to the ceiling, still flashing their glowing colors, some joining together in varying shapes. The candles wavered and danced, narrowly escaping being put out. Then, again, the water-threads all turned and darted towards the same point in the air. As they impacted, they burst into thousands of tiny droplets, then dissolved further into a thick, glowing, multi-colored fog. With one last wave, Luna banished the water as effortlessly as she’d summoned it and turned to face him.

“See?” she said. “It doesn’t have to always use it for material purpose. It should just be beautiful, too.”

Draco just looked at her, lost for words. She looked back without blinking, intense, frowning slightly. He looked away.

“Is that hard to believe?” she pressed. “Can you see the beauty in it?”

“Very pretty,” he muttered, the hot tightness still in his chest. An ache he couldn’t explain, and an anger, and a despair.

Luna took a breath as if about to speak, still staring at him, then paused, then took another breath. “Draco,” she said, still in the same firm voice. “I’m sorry, but I’m about to say something that’s pure speculation. Mum told me to never speculate about people, but I think I might need to make an exception. I think you’re too good at Occlumency.”

Draco blinked, taken back. “Huh?”

“I think you’ve kept your emotions boxed up for too long. I think, for some reason, you can’t let yourself feel. I think you’re afraid to feel.”

It was so preposterous, he couldn’t feel angry. “That’s not it.”

“No?” She tilted her head. “Then what is it? What’s stopping you?”

“Nothing’s stopping me,” Draco said. The ache was solidifying into something hard and familiar. “I just can’t do it.”

“Tosh.”

Draco scowled. “What do you expect me to do?”

“For starters, you can tell me what exactly is happening in your memories. How you feel when you think of them.”

“Oh, I feel grand,” Draco snapped. “It’s such fun remembering a life built on lies.”

Luna’s eyes widened. “What do you mean by lies?”

“The usual,” he drawled, “That Wizarding life is grand, that your family is grand, that everything isn’t destined to get shot to hell.”

“You feel hopeless, then.”

Draco inwardly cringed. “Would you _stop_ analyzing me?”

“I will, as soon as you stop boxing yourself up.”

Draco threw his hands in the air and walked towards the door. “That’s it. I give up. I’m going to bed.”

“Expelliarmus.”

Draco’s wand flew from his hand. He spun around in time to see Luna catch it. “Oh, very mature, Lovegood,” he sputtered. “Give it back.”

Luna put both wands behind her back, not looking at all perturbed that he was glaring at her with all of the poison and malice he could muster. “Why can’t you admit you feel hopeless?” she asked calmly, as if commenting on the weather or the class schedule.

Draco clenched his fists and stayed where he was by the doorway. “Give it _back_ , Lovegood.”

“There’s no shame in it,” she continued. “But you need to admit it.”

“I don’t feel _hopeless_ ,” Draco snarled, his pulse throbbing in his ears. “I feel _furious_. Now give me my wand back.”

“Oh, good,” she nodded. “So what’s stopping you from casting a Patronus?”

“I just _can’t do it_ , Lovegood!”

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

His arms shook. “I just can’t. You don’t understand.”

She locked eyes with him again. “So help me to.”

He eyed her head to toe, wondering if he could bring himself to wrestle her for his wand back. “I can’t _explain_ it, Lovegood.”

“You don’t know the reason?”

The hot knife of anger finally sliced through his last thread of patience. “Why do you _think_ , Lovegood?” he shouted, outstretching his left arm, his fist clenched so tightly he thought his fingernails might be drawing blood from his own palm.

Her gaze flicked over his arm, then went back to his face. He saw the same wheels turning in her head that had been several minutes ago when she first started staring intently at him. Then, without warning, she said clearly and calmly, “Voldemort.”

Draco flinched, reflexively bending his arm to draw it closer to his body before he caught himself. He straightened it again. Something tickled his palm. He was bleeding. “What’s that supposed to prove, Lovegood?”

“You should say his name.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “What for? He’s dead.”

“Exactly. It’s quite freeing.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Draco let his arm fall back to his side. Sweat prickled on the back of his neck.

“I’m serious, Draco.”

He avoided her gaze. “About what?” It was a lame excuse, and much more revealing than he liked.

“You should say Voldemort’s name.”

“Whatever you say. Can I have my wand back now?”

“Right now.” It was as if she hadn’t heard him. He felt her staring at him, and he refused to look at her, focusing instead on a dusty desk in one corner.

“What?”

“Say his name.”

He strongly considered leaving the room without his wand. But he was in an upper floor; could he make it to his room without it, or would he end up staying the night in the hospital wing? “Why?”

“I just think you should.”

Staying the night in the hospital wing began to sound appealing. “Well, I don’t.”

“You think you shouldn’t? Do you think I shouldn’t?”

Draco took one step towards the door. “You can do whatever you want, Lovegood.”

“So why don’t you say his name yourself?”

He took another step, pressing his arm against his side. “I could.” It was a lie. A stupid lie that they both knew was a lie.

Somewhere deep inside his mind, a voice was laughing at him.

“Then do it.”

He finally looked at her again. “No.”

She took one step towards him.

 _Run,_ he thought, absurdly. His heartrate quickened. He felt cornered. No, not cornered. Flanked. Something blocking him on both sides. Luna, tethering him with her gaze, and something invisible just behind the doorway, lurking in the corners, whispering in the breeze through the window, laughing in the dark.

Luna was speaking again. He felt like he was balanced precariously on an invisible edge, hearing his blood clearly rushing through his ears, Luna’s form was dark in the room, like their candles were suddenly burning down. She felt fuzzy and far away, even though her voice came through all too clearly.

“Why must you keep your arm covered? Why do you experiment with yourself to fall asleep without dreams? Why do you take this awful new potion? Why can you not bear to say Voldemort’s name, even now? Why are you hopeless? Why are you afraid? Why are you still afraid of him? He’s dead and you’re still petrified. Why?”

“You don’t understand,” he whispered, the truth coming to him quietly and smoothly. _It’s not him I’m afraid of._

Her voice became soft again. “What don’t I understand?”

 _Run,_ he thought again. _Danger._ Laughter. It was as if some far piece of him, foreign and unreachable, had taken control. “You don’t understand what it’s like.”

“Like what’s like?”

Draco closed his mouth, tight, still struggling to breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. The room snapped back into focus, the candles still burning. Luna was directly in front of him now, both his wand and hers in her hand at her side. He could snatch his from her now if he chose. But he couldn’t bring himself to draw any nearer to her. So he back away instead, nearly losing his balance as he retreated, stopping only when he reached the wall. 

She followed him at a distance, staying a little over an arm’s length away. Draco folded his arms tight across his chest and looked across the room at the darkened windows.

The hardness had fallen from her demeanor and the normal Luna was back, looking unblinkingly and worriedly at him. “Draco, may I see your arm?”

He shuddered, meant to say no. What came out instead was, “Why?”

“I’d like to see it.”

That wasn’t an answer. “Why?”

“I’m just curious.”

Draco shook his head. “You’ve seen the Dark Mark before. It’s just like that. It hasn’t changed.” The unseen thing was just behind him, looming up invisible and formless and without substance, ready to grab him with fingers like nails.

“It hasn’t faded, right?”

He shrugged. “Right.”

“Show it to me?”

“No.”

Her voice got marginally more firm. “Draco, pretending it’s not there is not going to help. Trying to forget isn’t going to make it go away, can’t you see that? Ignoring it is only making…whatever this is…worse.”

Draco snorted. “How would you know if it’s getting worse?” He said as the hair on his neck prickled and formless breath sighed against his face.

Her eyes suddenly sparkled, reflecting the light and her lips tightened. “Because you keeping looking over your shoulder when we’re walking down an empty hall. You jump suddenly when there’s nothing there.”

He pressed his arms against his chest. “Shut up.”

“Because you’ve been taking a potion that makes you feel nothing. Because that is apparently preferable to feeling anything.”

“I said shut up.”

“It is getting worse, Draco. Show me your arm.”

“No.”

“Trust me, Draco. Please.”

“No.”

Luna was silent. Then she darted forward, yanked his arm away from his chest, wrenching his sleeve away. He cried out, startled. The buttons on the cuffs burst off and rolled across the floor, and Draco was, again, astonished by how quickly Luna could move. But the feeling of surprise and anger were quickly swallowed by terror as he found himself staring, unprepared, at the mark standing out in the dark against his skin.

He cried out, a splintering pain slicing through his heart, and sudden vertigo made him fall back against the wall. Luna held his wrist firmly, looking at the mark, face unreadable. Draco’s breath came quickly and shallowly in his throat. He tilted his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth and struggling to grab his fear and push it into a box and close the lid.

_Don’t think…don’t think…don’t think…don’t remember…_

His free hand inched towards his pocket, then he felt Luna touching him, running her fingers down the length of his forearm and back. His eyes opened wide and he pulled back, fruitlessly, staring disbelievingly as Luna ran her fingers thoughtfully down the mark.

“Stop it.” His voice came out strangled, and he shuddered again as he felt the mark stir. He shut his eyes tight again, feeling darkness creep up through his psyche. He grabbed at the wall with his free hand, struggling to find support. “Oh, god.” It stirred like a serpent twining its way around his heart. “Oh, god.”

“It’s black, Draco,” said Luna softly. “But it’s dead.”

“It’s moving,” he whispered, eyes still closed, trying again to pull away.

 A short pause. “No, Draco. It’s not moving.”

Draco couldn’t breathe. He felt it slithering again. His lips parted and a moan leaked out from somewhere deep in his gut. It was stalking him, hunting him, playing with him, and laughing, that nightmare. The knowledge and vision that never left him, that revisited him again and again in his dreams when he couldn’t keep it at bay. He sank down, sliding down to the floor. Luna was still holding his wrist. No, holding his hand now, clasping it between both of hers. Dizzy and cold. He was going to faint.

 _You’re going to die,_ a familiar voice whispered. _You are dying._

**_Please just kill me._ **

“Draco,” Luna’s voice came from very far away. “Listen to me. This is important. Voldemort is dead. His memory still has a hold on you, somehow. It’s getting stronger the longer you don’t face it. You’ve used Occlumency too much. You’ve cut yourself off for too long.”

He couldn’t listen. The laughter was too loud. It thundered in his ears. “You don’t understand.”

Her hand clasped his hard. “Help me to.”

*

He was breaking, and she was terrified. He was crumpling before her very eyes, imploding on himself, losing his grip, and all she could do was hold his hand and beg him to let her in, somehow. She couldn’t do anything to help him. She didn’t know how. And he wouldn’t tell her how, even if he knew. This was Draco Malfoy. Prideful above all, secretive, hopeless. Standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump off. Drowning in an unknown ocean. The only thing she could think to do was dive in with him, if he’d only tell her where it was.

His fingers suddenly clenched hers tight. “Look, then.”

Luna wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. “What?”

Draco had opened his eyes. He was staring at her without blinking. Sweat covered his pale face, shimmering in the candlelight. His right hand was curled tight around his left forearm, as if trying to stop the Dark Mark from the movement that Luna couldn’t see but he clearly felt. “Look,” he repeated, his voice hoarse.

Luna didn’t know what he meant. “But what…you don’t…you didn’t…”

“If you want to know what it’s like,” Draco shivered a little, as if speaking these words took every ounce of strength he had and his body was trembling with the effort. His hand was cutting off the blood supply do her fingers. “You can’t unless you look. Do you know Legilimency?” His lips pressed together, and he continued to stare at her without blinking, slightly hunched, his legs curled under him.

Luna’s heart broke with relief. He was giving her a map to his ocean. She sincerely doubted that she was the person best equipped to help him, but she also knew he might not ever be willing to share it with anybody else. She knelt down in front of him. “I…don’t, exactly, know Legilimency,” she admitted. “I can give it a try, though. And if that doesn’t work, there’s always a pensieve.”

Draco’s Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed, appeared to try to speak, swallowed again, then finally forced out, his knuckles going a bloodless white as they tightened around his arm, “I’m an Occlumens.”

“I know.” Luna frowned slightly, not understanding.

Draco swallowed again. He was no longer looking at her, but staring past her shoulder. His gaze darted around the room. More sweat trickled down his temple; his hair was slowly dampening. “Occlumency,” he repeated. “Block everything else. Just leave the one.”

_The one? The one what?_

“Oh,” Luna drew her wand, and then an awful bolt of inspiration struck. “Do you have any of that potion with you?”

Draco finally blinked.  His eyes shifted to hers, forehead furrowing slightly. “No,” he said.

“Don’t lie to me,” said Luna.

Draco’s confusion seemed to be slightly lessening his fear; Luna wondered if this would make him change his mind. “Why do you want it?”

Luna tucked her hair behind her ear and sat back on her heels. “It dampens my emotions, so if I do that, I think it’ll open me to yours.” The fear returned to Draco’s eyes.

“No.”

“Why not? If I’m going to understand—”

“I’m not putting you through that!” Draco burst out; the terror was back in his face, and his left arm shook as he gripped it. “I’m not going to let _Him_ show you!”

 _Show me what?_ Luna gazed at him without saying anything for a long moment. She released his hand and he immediately tucked it under his armpit. She took her wand out from behind her ear and held out her empty hand. “Give it to me.” Draco just stared at her, horrified. “ _Accio_ Draco’s potion.” A vial zoomed out from somewhere in his robes, snapping into her waiting palm. Draco lurched forward slightly, reaching out with his left hand while his right was still holding tightly to his forearm. Luna leaned back, took out the cork, and drank the entire vial. She opened her eyes in time to see Draco’s mouth go slack with shock.

“I can’t believe you just—”

Luna felt her mind getting weighed down. “Hurry up,” she said. “You ready?”

“You’re not—”

“Are you ready?” she repeated, more loudly. The room was going gray. She struggled to hold onto her resolve.

Draco stared at her a moment more. He shut his mouth and clenched his teeth; she saw his jaw tighten. There was panic behind his eyes now as he leaned back against the wall, as if trying to escape her. Then, seeming to make up his mind, he shut his eyes tightly and shuddered. But when he opened his eyes a moment later, she knew he had done it, because he looked much calmer. “Ready,” he said in a flat tone.

She leaned toward him, looking into his clear, grey eyes, stopping only a moment before their faces would have touched. Then, lifting her wand and resting it against his temple, she said, “ _Legilimens._ ”

There was a rush of sound, and then a moment where she felt herself standing in a white, empty room. Then a door appeared before her, a black, gaping door, metal and solid and crisscrossed with thick, iron bars pierced with thick, iron nails, over which looped chains upon chains and a great, golden padlock.

She had the brief thought that, had she not drank this potion, she would be mightily disturbed by this door. But as it was, she merely observed, feeling nothing, only watching and experiencing. From somewhere in the back of Luna’s head, she heard a voiceless thought that she knew didn’t come from her, but she wasn’t entirely sure it was Draco’s either—at least not consciously. It whispered, _Don’t remember. Don’t remember. Don’t remember._

But she was still flying towards it, and it grew larger, and larger, looming over her head and going for miles and miles in either direction. And then, just when she thought she would crash into this mountain of a door, she stopped. And the padlock clicked open. Then the chains, and the bars, and the door itself dissolved and came crashing down over her head. She should have felt fear, but she felt nothing as the darkness enveloped her.

She was in a bed. She was covered by thick, warm blankets. Her eyes were closed. No, wait…this was not her. This was Draco. Was he asleep? He wanted to be. He was trying to deny that something had woken him up.

A high, distant, sing-song voice, coming very rapidly nearer. “Draco…”

Another voice, lower, but more urgent. “Bella, stop.”

“Draco, sweetie!”

Draco shook himself, groggily raising his head. He’d been sleeping badly, what with the tension for the past month, just waiting for a message that Lucius had been found dead in his Azkaban cell, or that the Dark Lord was coming, or that Narcissa and Draco were to be tortured—but for once he’d been able to fall fast asleep and forget his troubles, forget the nightmare of uncertainty, stop counting the days until he could return to Hogwarts for his sixth year, and now..

“Wake up, sweetie!” The door flew open and Bellatrix waved her wand, sending light dancing about the room. Draco winced.

Narcissa swept past her, fully dressed, coming to his bedside. “Get up, Draco.”

“What?” Draco put a hand to his stinging eyes, squinting between his fingers. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong!” Bellatrix said. The light sent mad shadows across her face, heightening her severe cheekbones and hollow cheeks until she looked skeletal. 

“We’ve been summoned,” whispered Narcissa. “Get dressed, darling. Quick.”

There was something in her voice. Dread swept through his limbs. Draco couldn’t move.

“Come on now, sweetie!” The bedcovers flew off the bed, and cool air struck his feet and whispered up through his pajamas. Draco sat up and Narcissa’s lips tightened.

“Bella, would you _please_.”

“It’s an honor!” Bellatrix said, looking at Draco. “Don’t you understand? He’s summoned you! _You!_ Aren’t you excited? We’re going to see Him! Now!”

Somehow Draco got out of bed. Somehow he got dressed. Narcissa’s thin arm wrapped around him with surprising strength as they stood in front of Bellatrix in the hall. His aunt caressed her Dark Mark, teeth glinting red in her wandlight. Draco couldn’t suppress a shudder as he looked at the serpent writhing under her touch. Narcissa gripped his hand tight and whispered, “Be strong and show respect, or else…”

She didn’t have time to finish, but that was all right. She didn’t need to. Draco’s mind went blank as Bellatrix grabbed the two of them and they Apparated.

A split second later Draco stood with darkness in his eyes and petrifying fear rooting through him to the ground. Bellatrix lit up her wand again, at his side opposite Narcissa. They were standing outside what looked like an abandoned house. Draco couldn’t help but notice how shriveled the grass was.

“Inside, sweetie!” Bellatrix prodded his back with her wand and Draco obeyed automatically, going forward to the door. He couldn’t think, plan, do anything. He didn’t dare anyway; the Dark Lord would be able sense it.

_I’m about to die._

Narcissa stepped forward also, and Draco heard Bellatrix shove her back. “He didn’t summon _you_ , he wants to speak to the boy!”

_Why me?_

They went inside, Narcissa trailing behind the two of them. Bellatrix extinguished her light. Encouraged by another push from his aunt, Draco blindly went up the stairs, his feet sinking either into thin carpet or a thick layer of dust. He wished his heart would be quiet. Then he might be able to hear something other than its pounding.

There was a fire in the hearth of one of the rooms. They entered, and Draco’s stomach plummeted so fast he thought he might be sick. There _He_ was, pale in the firelight, eyes burning, and a sense of – Draco didn’t know what. He had never seen _Him_ before—not like this, and certainly not this close. Draco was still moving towards him, but only because Bellatrix was pushing him. She stopped when he stood a few feet away from the Dark Lord. Draco stared at the ground. It was July, and the fire was burning brightly, but his fingers ached as if from the most severe cold. He thought he might faint.

“Ahh,” said the Dark Lord, as if just now realizing they were in the room. “Bellatrix.”

“I’ve brought him, my Lord, just as you asked,” Bellatrix’s voice was soft, almost a whimper, but rapid and excited and dripping with worship.

“Draco Malfoy.”

Draco wondered what _Avada Kedavra_ felt like.

“I am not going to kill you, Draco.”

Narcissa sucked in her breath. The sound unfroze Draco’s mind. He lifted his head, slightly, but didn’t look the Dark Lord in the eye.

“You are not your father.” The Dark Lord paused. Draco thought he was supposed to respond. He shook his head. “You are not your mother.” He shook his head again, mouth too dry to make a sound. "And so, you have a chance to redeem yourself. A chance to redeem your father, and your family name.”

None of the terror lifted, but the desire to live seized him. His heart pounded painfully against his ribs. He listened.

“I have appointed a task to you,” the Dark Lord said. “And to accomplish this task, I must have your utmost allegiance.”

He fell silent. Draco lifted his head further, but still did not look him in the eye. He looked to the side at the Dark Lord’s left shoulder, towards the fire. “What—” he stopped, ordered his voice to stop shaking, and whispered, “What would you like me to do?”

The Dark Lord laughed. Draco flinched.

“Draco!” Bellatrix hissed, correcting him. “What _may_ you do? What _honor_ does the Dark Lord _wish_ to give you?”

“Draco,” the Dark Lord stopped laughing. “This task is open to you, should you choose to bind yourself. Otherwise…”

“My Lord!” Bellatrix cried. She fell to her knees beside Draco, reaching out towards the Dark Lord’s feet. “My Lord, thank you! Thank you, for this honor to the family, for the second chance—”

“Silence, Bellatrix.”

She stopped speaking, looking over her shoulder at Draco with raging pride.

“Draco?”

The Dark Lord held out his arms as if he was about to embrace him. His sleeves slipped back. The dark mark burned black against the pale skin. Narcissa gasped, and then Draco understood. He stared in wonder, fear mixed with adrenaline, the possibilities suddenly blossoming in front of him, and he had a future—they all had a future—his Father would be free of Azkaban, they would be honored again, there would be no more hiding, he was going to _live_ —

 _Just for this one thing,_ a voice that was not his own spoke in his mind. _Just for this one pledge. A lifetime of glory, of power, of riches, your mother safe, your father alive, yourself elevated above the mere pittances of magical people who dare call themselves a resistance…and you will live, you will live above the rest, as you’ve always known was right, as you’ve always dreamed, as you’ve always felt in the depths of your soul was your destiny…it is here…it is here…_

Draco, feeling a shiver all the way down his spine, looked down at his own left arm. His right hand started to shake, and with a quick, jerky movement he yanked his sleeve up, exposing his pale, clear, left forearm.

“Well done, Draco,” said the Dark Lord softly, holding out his right hand, palm up, fingers slightly curved. The nails were dark and streaked, as if painted with old blood. Draco, again with a quick movement, forced himself to hold out his arm. It looked scrawny and weak; the arm of a child. Then he stepped forward until the Dark Lord touched his elbow with his fingers. A chill like death shot through Draco and his body was ice again. For a moment he thought he had fainted, or momentarily gone blind—but then his vision returned.

Narcissa’s breathing had suddenly become very loud. It almost seemed to echo in the room. How could it be so _loud_?

The Dark Lord’s touch was very light, but Draco could feel his fingertips as poignantly as if they were nails being driven into his bones. He noticed his own hand, looking very small and thin and long-fingered, resting against the crook of the Dark Lord’s exposed right arm.

The room whirled. Draco felt like he were floating. The Dark Lord raised his left arm until the loose sleeve of his robe slid back to his elbow, then the wand’s tip came down and pressed against Draco’s wrist.

“It’s very simple,” said the Dark Lord quietly. “You must swear to serve me above all others, above all things, above life and death itself, for all time. You will do what I command, you will come when I call.” He stopped and waited. Draco couldn’t breathe. He was fairly certain his voice had left him forever.

Bellatrix’s foot knocked against his calf and Draco shook himself.

“Bellatrix,” said the Dark Lord reprovingly, and Bellatrix hung her head.

But his aunt’s kick had worked. Draco found his voice. “I swear—” it came out as a whisper.

“Look me in the eyes.”

Dread caught in Draco’s throat. He forced himself to look up into the red eyes. He thought the fear would prevent him from speaking, but somehow it was easier looking into the eyes, as if something alien had dived into his mouth and was moving his tongue for him. Draco tried again. “I swear to serve you, the Dark Lord—”

“Use my name,” said the Dark Lord, sounding surprisingly patient. Draco froze. “This one time.”

Draco started over.  “I swear to serve you, the Lord Voldemort—” his voice left him again, and his concentration broke as the wand tip became colder than ice itself. He struggled to continue. “Ab-above all others, above all th-things, above life and…and…d…death itself, for all time, and to do all that you command, and come when you call.” His voice seemed to be getting further and further away, the room seemed to be shrinking

A sizzling sound. Bellatrix panted somewhere in the darkness below.

 _That wasn’t so bad_ —Draco thought, and then his mind exploded.

The ground dropped out from underneath his feet. He fell, whirling into a blackness that burned and chilled him, and there was Death. It swallowed him whole, it laughed in his face, it screamed in the dark, and pure terror consumed him, and great looping serpents wound around his head, around his arms, around his feet, and he was bound by living creatures to endless, endless cold and he was dying and there were agonized screams in his ears for all of the past, present, and future—

_I have seen your heart, Draco Malfoy._

It was his voice. He was the one screaming. There was a chasm, endless, in which great boiling clouds of smoke and ashes burst against each other. No light, no dark, no love, no hate, no beauty, no ugliness, no hope, no despair. There was chaos, and then order, and then chaos, and then order, there was only strength and weakness, the powerful and the powerless, there was blood, pure and impure, there was a great, cosmic, endless, cyclic, battle of no beginning and no end, and nothing, nothing to stop it, nothing beyond it—

He would have collapsed, but the Dark Lord’s hand had become a vice around his elbow and snakes were twisting, turning, he felt them under his skin, behind his eyes, nibbling at his brain and his will and his own wishes, hopes, and desires. They dissolved as in potions of acid, becoming obsolete and nothing more than pieces of rubbish to be thrown aside. They were illusions, fake, pointless. They were nothing; he was nothing; he was a mere playing piece, he was a tool to be moved across a board, to be fitted into a lock. He was dying, choking in the smoke, sinking forever but for the writhing chain that looped around his arm, yanking him back up, breaking his arm and everything within him in the process. He existed for nothing but to serve—he was not his own—he belonged to the Dark Lord Voldemort—he was not his own—he was being pulled up by claws and serpents invisible, rising above the chaos, closer to solid ground, and then there was pause. He had to climb—he must climb—he reached out and the effort stretched and broke him. No time, no time—must climb, must climb—pain intense and necessary and deserving and necessary and pointless and necessary—

_And it is mine._

Then it was over, and pain burst across his skin. The Dark Lord had let him go. Draco was on his knees. He clutched his arm to his chest, only able to see in colors of shifting orange and red. His eyes were full of tears and they blinded him. His arm and heart burned and froze and he thought his chest would split in two and all of his bones would crack. He envisioned his arm in flames, the skin burning away and curling back like paper, exposing blackened flesh and blood and bone, except for the pitch black, cold pool of a skull and serpent. The vision still whirled through his mind—the struggle, the battle, the constant battle—join or be destroyed—become strong or be trodden upon—

He gasped a breath horrid and ragged, and he didn’t even care about how weak he sounded. He didn’t care that he was shuddering, worthless, crouched on the ground.

“Well done, Draco,” said the Dark Lord. Draco dragged in a deep breath. Weakness washed over him and he became still. He fell forward, putting out a hand against the rug to stop himself falling onto his face. He wondered how much time had passed. He realized it didn’t matter. “Stand up.”

His knees shook. Draco got up, still clutching his arm. He didn’t look into the Dark Lord’s eyes again. He was supposed to speak, now, Draco thought. “What—” It hurt to speak, somehow. His entire mind ached. His spirit was numb, his heart was cold. He wanted to faint, but he couldn’t. Because he had no right to faint and escape. He belonged to another now. There was one way out—there had only ever been one way out, since before the Dark Lord himself, for all eternity. And now that he saw it, he had to take it.

Draco tasted blood. He swallowed. “What would…my…Lord…have me do?”

“It’s quite simple,” said the Dark Lord. “You must return to Hogwarts this fall. And by the end of the next school year, you must kill Albus Dumbledore.”

Draco was aware of his mother’s heavy breathing again. He wondered where she was in the room. He knew it didn’t matter.

He should have felt horrified at this prospect, Draco thought, horrified about killing Albus Dumbledore. But he was too numb to feel anything. He thought he might not feel anything ever again—and that would be fine. Because his feelings weren’t his own, his feelings meant nothing, his feelings were only useful as tools, and they meant nothing in reality…

“If you succeed, your family’s honor will be restored,” said the Dark Lord, sounding exceedingly careless. “If you fail, I will kill all of you.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” said Bellatrix. She was still at his feet. “Thank you, for this honor, your mercy abounds, thank you—”

“Leave,” said the Dark Lord. Draco backed away, head bowed. “Ah, and…one more thing…tell no one about this mission. It is yours alone.”

Bellatrix grabbed him and Narcissa, pulling them backwards out of the room. In the yard again, they Apparated back to the mansion.

The darkness descended over his eyes again. Draco wobbled, felt Narcissa’s arms around him. “Darling, Draco, are you all right?”

“Of course he’s all right!” Bellatrix cried. “You’ve been given a second chance!”

Draco nodded. He gripped his arm. His face felt sticky. He felt his stomach roiling. He tried to walk. He fell against Narcissa. His feet slid and fought the floor that tilted crazily. Then the vertigo and the nausea combined together in his stomach and he leaned over, vomiting onto the floor.

Narcissa held him up; she pressed her own sleeve to his mouth. All of his weight was on her shoulders as he struggled to find his feet. He felt fresh warmth pouring down his face, and he was confused about it until Bellatrix spoke again.

“Don’t worry about your tears, sweetie. That’s perfectly normal. I cried for days after getting mine, I was so happy.”

Narcissa’s grip tightened. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

Draco didn’t have any memory of climbing the stairs, or getting into bed. He was only aware of being there, and thinking he could sleep for a year, and feeling Narcissa’s hand on his forehead, smoothing back his hair that clung to his skin, wet from sweat, and Bellatrix singing in the hall.

*

With the gasp of a man who has nearly drowned, Draco lurched forward, his vision returning in spotty shades of grey. The candles had gone out. Luna had backed away, crouching with her hands resting limply on her knees. She’d dropped her wand, and she wasn’t looking at him.

He trembled, and his vision swirled, refusing to come into focus. He closed his eyes, shook his head, pressed one palm against his burning forehead. It came away damp with sweat. He stared at it, its shape blurring in the darkness. Draco blinked hard and rubbed at it with his other hand. Luna’s fingers touched his wrist, cool and dry. Draco froze for a moment, then continued rubbing, still not looking up. He shivered as the sweat on his face began to dry.

“Draco,” she whispered.

“So you’ve seen,” he croaked, and his voice nearly broke, and his vision stung and blurred once more. He drew his arms away from her, leaning back against the wall, hugging his hands close to his chest and looking at the ground. Luna said nothing, but she moved to sit beside him. Neither of them moved for a long while. The tears on Draco’s face dried, and the darkness became absolute, and still they simply sat there. Draco didn’t know what he was waiting for – if anything. He felt afraid to move; something inside of him had broken from reliving the memory.

_There’s nothing._

It was a relief to think it, almost, an acknowledgement of the truth at last, as horrible as it was.

_There’s nothing._

He wasn’t hopeless. He just knew that hope didn’t exist.

Luna finally shifted. Draco closed his eyes, deciding to pretend to be asleep if she tried to speak to him. But she didn’t; he heard her wand scrape against the ground as she picked it up again, heard her clothes rustling, and one hand touch his knee. Draco forced himself to continue to take measured breaths and not to move. Perhaps she would leave, and he could just curl up on the ground right here and sleep—

Her fingertips touched his face. Draco sucked in his breath instinctively from surprise and held it. What—

She touched his cheek, just below the corner of his eye, pressed there for just a moment, then lifted away. Then her touch came again, just beside the spot a moment before.

Then the realization hit him and his heartrate quickened and shock kept him completely still. She was not touching his face—she was kissing it. She was kissing his tears away—softly, gently, her fingers coming to rest on either side of his face to guide her mouth in the darkness. He felt her breath and her eyelashes and her own cheek brushing his skin as she made her way across his face, over the bridge of his nose, and across the other side. Then she moved back, and he could breathe again.

He said nothing, and neither did she. He didn’t leave, and she didn’t either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. 
> 
> So, that happened.
> 
> Today's chapter brought to you by "Demons" by Imagine Dragons. The cover by Kurt Hugo Schneider, to be specific. Because I'm an over-dramatic ball of angst and cheese sometimes, if I'm honest.
> 
> (Also, it's fine if you're a bit confused. Things aren't supposed to be completely clear yet, because they aren't clear to Draco or Luna either. But if you have figured it out, bonus points to you. :) If you haven't figured out what Draco's afraid of, it'll *probably* be made clearer in the next chapter? Not sure. It depends. I often don't know how the characters are going to act/talk/think until I actually write it out, so we'll see, I guess.)


	17. Chapter 17

Echoes of screams in his ears. He flailed. His hand and arm burned with the aching cold of an invisible chain descending from darkness above and into darkness below. It hurt him and it saved him and was all there was. His blood rushed in his ears, cold and loud and dripping. He choked.

_Can’t breathe._

Smoke thick, bones aching and broken.

_Pull._

The chain had turned to mist between his fingers and he fell.

_Crash._

Solid wood beneath him, merciful wood bruising his knees. Pain still splintered down his spine. He groped, convulsing, still choking, still blind, and his hand closed on a small vial.

_Safety._

He couldn’t remember what it meant, only that it was important. He struggled with the cork, fingers clumsy and swollen and bruised.

_Climb._

Something was in the dark; it blanketed him, smothering him. His heart was going to explode. His lungs were going to burst. He reached up into nothing, waving a hand in empty air, then frantically tried the bottle again. He put the cork between his teeth and pulled it out, drank the single swallow of liquid contained within.

_Calm._

Time slowed. The darkness settled. He sat on the floor in his dormitory in the dead of night, tangled in his own sheets. He clutched the empty vial.

_Nightmares._

Only nightmares. There was no biting chain, there was no smoke, and there were no screams beneath his dangling feet. His hands stopped shaking. His heart slowed. He could breathe again. His arm still burned with cold, but he could ignore it.

He sat there for some minutes before the effect of the potion began to trickle away. Draco rubbed his face hard. He concentrated, breaking his thoughts into pieces, closing them away. It was hard. Harder than usual. Much harder. The screaming started again. The smoke filtered its way back into the rooms. He could smell it.

_I shouldn’t have done that._

He opened his eyes. His hands began to tremble again, slightly, as he disentangled himself from the sheets and stood up. He ran his fingers along the bedside table until he found his wand.

“Lumos.” His voice quivered. In the light he surveyed the room. He’d knocked some books from the table, and his pillow was somehow resting against the opposite wall. He rubbed his eyes again.

“Merlin’s beard,” he whispered, swallowing. The light danced wildly back and forth as the tremors in his hands increased. The unwanted thoughts began to crowd in on him again—the darkness pressed in around his shoulders and his arm burned. The floor began to disappear.

 _“No.”_ He pushed them back, into their boxes, but they fought him, bursting through the lids and overflowing the sides and he swayed. Distant shouts and cries crept closer. It sounded like students wailing in other parts of the castle. “No. _No._ ” He picked up his bag from the floor and rummaged through it until he found another vial and took another swallow.

He sat on the bed as another few silent minutes passed as his hands stopped shaking and his heartrate slowed and the panic and need to fight ebbed away. The hallucinations stopped. As the potion wore off a second time he shut his eyes tight, focusing entirely on locking away his thoughts.

_I shouldn’t have done that._

He should have known better. He should have known that opening the door freely, the one that he tried so hard to keep closed, the one that only managed to haunt him when he was sleeping—he should have known that opening it would make the nightmares continue even after he woke.

“God.” He leaned over, clutching his wand in both hands like a lifeline. His head tilted forward and he bit down hard on one knuckle. The metallic taste of blood ran across his tongue as he took deep, measured breaths, trying to ignore the nightmare that was now refusing to stay in his subconscious. He longed for daylight, dreaded that its coming wouldn’t change anything.

His voice came out in a half-sob. “God damn it, Luna.”

*

Luna awoke in her dormitory without quite remembering how she had gotten there. She dimly remembered Draco eventually getting up to leave, but only because he had asked her, again, for his wand back. She searched her pockets, then sat up and ran her fingers along the sheets under the covers until they closed around her mother’s talisman. She brought it up and gazed at it for a long while, trying to think.

She remembered what she had experienced, of course, but it had faded slightly now, like a vivid nightmare whose details had become hazy with time. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been to actually live through it. She caught her breath and stiffened, staring hard at the draperies over her bed as if trying to see through them.

_Draco._

She had convinced him to relive what was his worst nightmare, for better or worse. How was _he_ faring right now? She clambered out of bed, tangling herself in the draperies of her bed in her rush, and dressed in a hurry.

Down in the Great Hall, he was nowhere to be seen. But she spotted Ginny’s fiery hair at the Gryffindor table, bent over a very long scroll of parchment, and she walked over, tapping her friend on the shoulder. Ginny put her finger on her place in the (very, very small) writing, and glanced up.

“Good morning, Luna,” she said, rubbing one blurry-looking eye.

“Good morning, Ginny,” said Luna. “Have you seen Draco?”

“No, but I haven’t really been looking.” Ginny plucked some grapes from the bowl in front of her. “Sit down and eat, our classes start in ten minutes.”

“They do?” Luna looked up at the enchanted ceiling, noticing for the first time the placement of the sun. “Oh. I didn’t realize the time. But I really need to find Draco.”

“What for?” asked Ginny, her mouth full of fruit. “He hasn’t done anything stupid again, has he?”

“I don’t know.”

Ginny turned back to her parchment. “Well, he skips breakfast a lot anyway. I’m sure he’ll turn up. Sit down.”

Luna reluctantly sat down on the bench and spooned porridge onto her plate, but she only ate a few bites and didn’t taste any of it, looking up and scanning the room every few moments.

“Say, where are your books?” Ginny asked a few minutes later as she rolled up her parchment.

“Hm?” Luna leaned back on the bench to get a clearer look of the hall doors. Still no sign of him.

“Your _books_ , Luna, for class.”

Luna put down her hand, feeling the bench next to her. Only when her hand touched nothing but wood did she glance down and notice that her bag was nowhere to be seen. “Oh. I suppose I forgot to grab them.”

Ginny frowned, turning to face Luna completely and looking at her up and down. “You don’t look yourself. Is something wrong?”

“What?” Luna looked around the room again and stood up. “Oh, no. Just a little disoriented, I suppose.”

“Why?” Ginny frowned deeper. “I know you like to be barefoot, Luna, but you ought to wear shoes to Herbology. You know that. And did you brush your hair this morning?”

Luna absent-mindedly reached up and touched what felt like a bird’s nest. “I don’t remember,” she said thoughtfully. “Excuse me. I need to get my books.” She glanced down and wiggled her toes. “And my shoes.”

And she ran back up to Ravenclaw tower.

*

He was on the edge of madness. That’s what it felt like, anyway. He somehow walked through the halls, went to classes, pretended to study for the NEWTs that would begin in mere days, but he did so like an automaton, or a puppet. He was walking on a thin layer of tissue paper, beneath which there was absolutely nothing. He walked among a blur of colors, moving incredibly slowly while every other student moved incredibly fast. Any moment now, the tissue paper would tear. They would all fall, it would envelope them all. The walls of the castle crumbled into dust—there were flashes of light, screams, there were large spiders and Death Eaters in masks and one of the pillars exploded in a spray of stone fragments as a giant burst through, club raised—

“Watch it, Malfoy!”

He’d walked directly into somebody; they shoved him and he staggered back and whoever it was joined the never-ending blurred current of students. What were they all doing? Didn’t they realize there was no reason?

Then Luna materialized in front of him. She emerged from the blur and stood in front of him, the only thing solid. The only thing real. They stared at each other. Her eyes were extremely wide, and he could see his own reflection. They didn’t speak, but he felt something extend from her, and he felt something leave himself. Luna didn’t smile. But she nodded, once, touched his hand, and then disappeared back into the crowd. Draco blinked. The ground on which he stood became slightly firmer.

That night was the same as the previous one, a mix of living and dying, of waking and dreaming, of weakness and power. But the next day was easier. Still a dangerous balancing game, but one that he was winning. He could make it. He would. He had forced his own thoughts into submission before and he would do it again. Granted, they hadn’t been acting like this before, but—

“Hey. Numpty.”

Draco turned to see Ginny Weasley leaning against the wall in the large corridor between classes. He felt himself pulled out of the slipstream. Everything slowed back to its normal pace; conversation sounded less like babble and more like words. He spoke and his voice felt strange in his throat. “That’s a mild one, Weasley. Sure you don’t want to call me anything stronger?”

“Eh,” she shrugged. “You haven’t done anything lately to deserve anything stronger.” She looked hard at him. “Luna’s acting weird. Have you noticed?”

“Weird?” Draco echoed.

Ginny waved a hand. “Granted, she’s always weird, but this is weird for Luna.”

“Er,” he rubbed his forehead. He allowed his thoughts to begin to move again, cautiously. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. Haven’t spoken to her though.”

Ginny looked surprised. “No? Well, she’s disoriented, and doesn’t look like she’s sleeping well. Or, at all. Something on her mind. Then she seemed agitated at lunch today. Over-energetic. Chatty.”

Draco blinked. “Chatty?”

Ginny jabbed her thumb towards him. “Do you know why?”

“Maybe. Sort of. Perhaps it’s exam stress.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I have to get to class.”

“What kind of an answer is that?” Ginny demanded.

“A truthful one. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Ginny looked deeply suspicious. “What happened?”

“Something private,” said Draco dully. “Ask her yourself and I think you’ll get the same response.” He turned his back on her and left. She didn’t follow.

He didn’t speak to Luna until the next day. He wasn’t avoiding her, but every time they crossed paths they merely exchanged glances, his glassy-eyed and hers very wide-eyed, intense, darting. And somehow these glances were almost conversations in themselves. He could almost hear her mind racing. Agitated, indeed. He didn’t think to be worried, though, until he was walking towards the Great Hall and heard a sudden burst of high-pitched shouting that, for the first time since sharing the memory, made him forget about regulating his thoughts and memories and emotions.

He stopped for a moment, disbelieving, then broke into a run. He rounded a corner to find Luna standing in front of an extremely shocked-looking Harper, with three Slytherins standing slightly behind, and a small gaggle of other Hogwarts students watching and whispering.

“How dare you!” Luna cried, her back ramrod-straight, both hands in fists at her sides, up on her toes a few inches from Harper and glaring up into his face. “How dare you talk about something you know nothing about! The war was hard on everyone! How can you not understand that? Where were _you_ in the Battle of Hogwarts? Running away, I daresay! Did you ever stop to think how fortunate you are, that you could run away? At least no one was _forcing_ you to stand and fight!” Harper simply stared at her, slack-jawed, looking completely taken aback. Alarmed, Draco hurried forward. “You simply have _no idea_! About _anything_! About _any_ of it!”

“Luna,” Draco said cautiously, reaching out to take her arm. Before he could touch it, though, she turned on the spot and stared at him for a moment, blinking rapidly. He shrank back. “Are…you okay?”

Without looking away from Draco, Luna lifted one hand, extended one finger, and jabbed it in the general direction of Harper’s face. It would have gone up his left nostril if he hadn’t ducked out of the way and backpedaled a few steps. “He’s _vile_ , Draco, this one! Stupid, and harmless, but _vile_.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Draco quickly. “Why don’t you stop shouting?”

“ _Vile._ ” Luna repeated, with emphasis, as if he hadn’t understood the first time, finger still pointing to the side and slightly upwards, even though Harper’s face was no longer there.

Harper didn’t even look insulted. He just continued to step back. “Malfoy,” he said, turning his wide-eyed gaze in Draco’s direction. “Your girlfriend is _mental_.” Then he shot Luna another nervous look and quickly walked away, his Slytherin followers hurrying behind him.

Luna, however, continued to stare at Draco, her finger still frozen in place. Draco glanced around at the onlookers. “All right, show’s over,” he said to them. When nobody moved, he added, “Get lost, before I hex the lot of you,” and they started to drift away. Then he grabbed Luna’s arm and tugged her into the nearest classroom, taking time to shut the door tight. It was bright and clean in here, which meant it was in use. Another class might be coming in at any moment. Luna began to circle the small space, walking quickly and aimlessly, her arms folded behind her back.

“Vile,” she spoke clearly, and to no-one, staring into blank space with her head tilted back. “Can’t call people cowards, just like that. Nonsense. Senseless. I won’t _stand_ for it, I tell you. Seeing what people go through. Feeling it. So easy to judge from the outside, if you just tried to _understand_ —”

“What’s this about?” Draco interrupted her aimless tirade, standing in front of the door.

She stopped and turned, staring at him. She lifted her hand, pointed at the wall. “He said—”

He interrupted her again. “I’m not talking about Harper. He’s an idiot, that’s obvious. What’s wrong? It doesn’t have to do with your father, does it?”

“No, Daddy’s fine. Got a letter yesterday. Or…” she paused. “No, last week. I mean, four days ago. Um…” she let her hand fall, frowning in concentration. Then she looked up suddenly. “What’s wrong with _you_?”

“Me?” answered Draco, startled. “Other than the obvious, you mean? Nothing.”

She lightly bumped her forehead with her palm. “No, no, I meant – are you all right? Okay? Better? Worse?”

“Worse,” he said shortly.

“I noticed. You’ve been hiding,” said Luna, her gaze unblinking.

“Hiding?” Draco repeated.

“In your own head. Hiding. How can you be here?” She pressed her fingers to her temples and stared up into space again. “How did you make it here? I was there secondhand, you were there in person, it _was_ you in person, how did you survive until now?”

Those distant agonized screams echoed in the back of his mind. Draco gritted his teeth, slowly shoving the mental door shut until they quieted. “I had to,” he said, his voice strained with the effort. “Or my parents wouldn’t have. But I might not for much longer if you keep talking about it.”

“But you’re still here,” she said wonderingly. “You parents are still here. So what is it you’re afraid of?”

Something threw itself against his mental door and it shuddered. “I don’t know, Luna. Can we go now?”

She bent her head and started to shake it slowly back and forth, but he didn’t think it was in answer to his question. “I keep thinking about it.”

He tasted blood; he’d bitten his tongue. “Don’t.”

“They tell you what Voldemort believed, they tell you what he thought, and they tell you he doesn’t understand love or goodness or beauty or anything, but it’s not the same— to actually understand it, to actually see into his world— to actually _see_ it, to actually be a part of his mind, even for just an _instant_ …”

“Merlin’s beard,” Draco cursed desperately and fearfully, he leaned back against the door, closing his eyes tight and pushing against it, as if that would help to keep the visuals at bay. “Merlin, I knew I shouldn’t have shown you that. I knew I’d regret it _—_ ”

Luna jumped forward. He felt her grab the back of his neck with one hand and opened his eyes in time to see her stand on her tiptoes and kiss him full on the mouth.

His mind went momentarily blank.

Then she let go. “ _I_ don’t,” she said fiercely, and resumed her pacing. Draco stared at her. “ _I_ don’t,” she repeated, suddenly sounding much more clear-headed than she had a moment before. “I’m _glad_ you showed me. _Glad._ It was horrid, of course. Of course it was. But it’s _different_ , now. And I don’t understand, not really, but I’m closer to understanding, I think.” She stopped and pointed at him. “So you aren’t afraid of Voldemort himself, exactly. Not anymore. Are you afraid of the mark?”

“Er,” said Draco. The room was spinning, ever so slightly. “What?”

“Your Dark Mark. Are you afraid of it? Of powers it might still hold?” She paused. “It didn’t ever hold any powers, though, did it? Not in itself?”

“Not exactly.” His heart was pounding again, but the blood rushing through his ears was hot and not cold. It wasn’t unpleasant. He rubbed his mouth.

Luna tilted her head. “Not exactly?”

“A vow,” he said, dazed. “A feeling. Selling your soul to the devil.” The shadows of the manor wrapped themselves around his ankles. “Always lurking there, just a piece, in the back of your mind, following you, keeping you for itself. Thoughts, dreams, life…” Detached and wandering and faint. His world reeled.

Luna took his hand and it snapped back into focus. He stared down at her soft fingers gripping his limp ones. “You felt controlled?”

“No,” he spoke slowly. Heavy and weighted. He shook his head, struggling to throw off the clouds. “Lost.” He sucked in a breath, felt his mind clear slightly. It cleared enough for him to recognize the nightmare creeping back into his conscious mind. He lifted his head and stared past Luna’s face, into nothing, into the chasm that was opening itself in the middle of the bright, sunny classroom. “He was the only way out. He was the only one who _knew_ the way out. He was the only one who could get me out.” He paused. “We belonged to him.”

“Because he held the lifeline. He had the power, and power was the only purpose to anything.” Luna mused. “So is it Voldemort himself that makes that your worst memory, or is it the image of his world?”

 _She kissed you and she’s holding your hand,_ the teenage part of his brain said, distracting him again, mercifully, so he didn’t have to answer.

 _Death,_ said the nightmare.

 _She kissed me,_ he said defiantly back.

“Because if you aren’t afraid of Voldemort, because you understand he’s dead and gone forever, the only thing left is that you’re afraid of…” she paused, and then her breath sucked in sharply. “You don’t _believe_ him, do you?”

Draco shook himself again. “Huh?”

“Look at me,” she demanded, and he turned his head, looking into her eyes, which were clearer still. “I understand if you believed him, then, while he was alive, after everything was hopeless, but now…now that he’s gone…you _understand,_ don’t you?”

“Understand what?”

“That he was wrong.” Draco’s face must have shown blankness, because she squeezed his hand tight and continued. “His world. It’s a lie. He was _wrong._ You don’t believe it anymore, do you?”

“Luna…” Draco looked away from her, the momentary spike in hormones draining away. “You’re assuming I ever believed anything else.”

Luna went still. “What do you mean?”

He grinned in disbelief, shaking his head. “Come on, Lovegood…really? Malfoy and Black. Ancient purity. Wealth and power. Expulsion of half-bloods, disowning of squibs, disgust of Mudbloods, disdain of Muggles…”

“Stop it.”

“Enemies of the Heir, Beware. You’ll be next, Mudbloods.”

She pulled away. “Draco, _stop_ it.”

“Stop what?” He spread his hands. “This is me.”

“No it isn’t.” Luna’s voice was sharp.

“What makes you so sure?”

Luna gave a small stamp of her foot. “Because it _hurts_ you.” Draco raised his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth curling. Luna stabbed one finger at his face. He jerked back. “And don’t you _dare_ pretend like it doesn’t. I was there. It may not be my memory, but I _felt_ you. You were terrified. You still are. You aren’t afraid of Voldemort. You aren’t even afraid of the mark. You’re afraid that he was _right._ You finally saw the world you’d been chasing your whole life and you _hated_ it.”

Draco said nothing.

“It _hurt_. You _don’t want it,_ Draco. Some part of you knows your belief is wrong, the way you were raised was wrong, or else it wouldn’t hurt so badly. That world is _desperately_ wrong. You can feel that, don’t you?”

He smiled. “It hardly matters, Lovegood.”

“Yes it _does._ ”

Draco turned towards the door without answering. His insides shook, threatening to fly apart.

“If you believe it’s the truth, why didn’t you want me to see it?”

“Because I like you as you are and I didn’t want to risk it changing you.” He pulled open the door and peeked out into the corridor.

“It _isn’t_ the truth,” Luna insisted.

“So I dodged that outcome, clearly.” He focused on his voice and his tongue, keeping them steady, until he could get away. “Look, some first- or second-years are probably going to come in here any moment. Are you better now? Can I go without risking more outbursts from you? No more shouting at idiots?”

Luna didn’t answer at first. He glanced back to see her staring at him.

“You aren’t going to do anything stupid, are you?”

“I can’t afford to do anything stupid,” said Draco honestly, acutely aware of a burning in the back of his gut. “I have my NEWTs coming up, after all.” He took a shallow breath. “Excuse me.”

He walked rapidly away from her until he could make it around the corner, take a vial from his robes, drink the contents, and regain his composure as best he could.

*

Luna was making it worse.

He was recovering, slowly – if you could call it recovering. He was getting better at muscling the newer, stronger nightmares away from his consciousness—at least long enough for one NEWT at a time. But seeing Luna, no matter how well he did at keeping everything locked away, made it all want to spill over. Overwhelm him, shut off his breath. He could force himself to forget, until the sight of her forced him to remember.

_It hurts you._

And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from seeking her out – at meals, when studying, before and after NEWT exams. Saying little, gripping her hand. The sight of her made things worse, but her touch made things better.

_You finally saw the world you’d been chasing your whole life and you hated it._

He couldn’t explain it. He didn’t try.

He only dimly remembered seeing Hermione Granger in the hall; couldn’t gather up enough ire to care when the Patronus Charm was indeed a part of the Defense Against the Dark Arts exam.

Something, he thought, was going to end him. Any day now, something was going to give.

But then it didn’t. The school year ended like a soft whimper. His final research he had submitted to Slughorn, every NEWT was over and done with, his trunk was packed with as many vials of potion as he could fit with the rest of his belongings, and his life was finished. That was it. His grand experiment. His stoic attempt to make a statement, to somehow remake himself. No more hiding, no more procrastination. Time to face the rest of his life in a manor with nothing ahead, nothing to look forward to.

The train ride back was a study in dread. He sat at the end of a car, head propped in one hand, staring out the window and seeing nothing, holding Luna’s hand. She and Ginny and Michael Coroner and a few others all sat with them as well, conversing amongst themselves as if he wasn’t there. He didn’t care; almost didn’t notice.

_Dread._

He dreaded going home.

The ride was altogether too long and altogether too short. When it came to a stop, Draco looked up for the first time as those within their carriage said goodbye and picked up their things and pushed out into the corridor.

“Will you be all right?”

He looked at Luna, realized they were both standing and not remembering getting up. “I don’t know.”

She nodded. “Come and visit whenever you like,” she invited as she stood on tiptoe to get her bag from the overhead rack. Draco came to his senses and let go of her hand. “Daddy’s gone and I won’t be going to work in the Department of Magizoology for another month. I won’t have anything to do but work on the Quibbler and clean the house and visit friends, so—”

Draco brought down his own bag. “Do you want help with that?”

Luna blinked at him. “With what?”

“Anything. The Quibbler, the house?”

“Oh…” her cheeks went pink and she looked at the ground.

“It’s okay,” Draco muttered. “Forget I asked.”

“No.” Luna looked away, at the students passing their car. “No, I want the help. And…I’d like the company.” Draco was struck with the impression that she was dreading going home to an empty house nearly as much as he was dreading going home to his parents.

“All right then,” he said, feeling slightly better. “I’ll see you soon, then.”

She nodded and smiled. “Soon.”

Draco expected lots of emotions when he got home. Anger, depression, more dread, emptiness. But as he stepped onto the platform with his bag and trunk, he didn’t expect to hear a joyful voice calling out to him.

“Draco, darling! Over here!”

And he didn’t expect a jolt in his stomach that was nostalgia and homesickness and gratitude as he turned to see his mother hurrying towards him, hands outstretched. His trunk thudded to the ground as he hugged her tight, overwhelmed and confused as every emotion _but_ anger, depression, dread, and emptiness washed over him and he had to fight back unexpected tears.

“What are you doing here?” He managed at last, voice slightly muffled as they swayed slightly on the spot in each other’s arms, like they hadn’t seen each other in years.

That last week, he realized, had been years. The time spent in a waking nightmare, in the half-surreality, had been a timeless eternity. He clutched her tighter.

“I wanted to pick you up, of course,” said Narcissa lightly. As Draco looked over her shoulder he noticed several people looking at them. They quickly looked away. “Draco, darling, what’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” he repeated, distracted by the sideways looks. Her hand stroked the hair at the base of his neck and he realized he was clinging to her almost as if for dear life. “Nothing’s wrong.” He managed to relax and pull back. “I’m glad to see you is all.” He picked up his trunk again. It was only then that it suddenly occurred to him that Luna did not have anyone to take her home. He looked over his shoulder, scanning the crowd, but she had already disappeared. So he took his mother’s hand and they left the station together, as quickly and non-conspicuously as they could.

Draco got another surprise when they entered the manor; Lucius strode up and shook his hand and gave him a quick embrace without even a hint of hesitation or awkwardness. Draco didn’t doubt that he still refused to leave the building, but you almost couldn’t tell there was anything wrong. Draco glanced around the front hall as Narcissa explained to him the welcome-home meal preparations Nippy had made, and he almost couldn’t see any shadows or darkness.

Almost.

Hardly daring to breathe for fear this moment might shatter, Draco allowed himself to be led into the dining room, where the fire and candles blazed cheerily and the food was plentiful and good and voices were bright and unconcerned and Draco bragged with ease about the last few weeks of school, on his work with Slughorn and the expected good results of his NEWTs and one could almost forget that Charity Burbage was devoured by a snake in this very room.

Almost.

And in the sitting room, pretending to read as he sat and breathed and relaxed and felt his mother next to him and his father across from him and the heat from the fire and the crickets from outside the open windows and the slight stirring of the night breeze like the days just after he’d turned fourteen and one could almost forget that the gardens out in the dark were more or less in ruins and that Hermione Granger had been tortured a few feet away while he sat in a corner with his head bowed and his eyes squeezed shut and biting down on his tongue until it bled and the Dark Lord had nearly killed them all when he found out that Potter had escaped. Draco could almost forget that he had no idea what his life would hold now, no idea what would come, no idea if anything would come ever again, no idea for how long he would struggle with the memories until they drove him mad.

Almost.

But “almost” was fine. “Almost” was good enough. Draco was immensely grateful for “almost.”

His gaze eventually drifted to the fire as he leaned his head on his hand, holding his book open on his lap.

“What are you reading, darling?” Narcissa asked after some time.

Draco glanced down. He had taken it at random from the library. “It’s on mythical creatures indigenous to the United States.” He ran one finger down an embossed illustration of a golden winged creature. The caption read, _Thunderbird_.

Narcissa leaned closer, head tilting slightly as she looked down at the illustration. “Oh. I remember receiving that.”

“Receiving what?” Lucius glanced up from the newspaper.

“This book,” Narcissa nodded towards it. “Elaina Brown gave it to me at that New Years’ party of the Bulstrode’s. Remember her? Receptionist for the Improper Use of Magic office?”

“Hard to forget,” Lucius grunted, raising the paper again. “Horrible woman.”

Narcissa smiled. “She flirted with you _once_ , Lucius, that doesn’t make her a horrible woman. Empty-headed and ugly and possessing an unhealthy obsession with the color purple, yes. Horrible, no.” She lifted the book from Draco’s hand and partially closed it, looking at the cover. “I think she wanted to try to impress me with how worldly she was. I never read it, though.” She gave it back, flipping it open to the same illustration. “Is it good?”

He’d barely read two pages. “It’s all right.” He straightened and looked at the book his mother had set down when she examined his. “Are you reading a _textbook_?”

She laughed. “You sound horrified. Perhaps you’ve done a bit too much studying lately. But no,” she held up the book for his inspection. “It’s merely the latest compilation of _Transfiguration Today._ I was just reading about a fascinating study done just last year in Uganda on the practicability of using permanent human transfiguration as a means of self-defense.”

“Oh?” Draco frowned. “Is it? Practical, I mean?”

She smiled. “Only if you’re extremely good at it. It’s difficult to perform on yourself in the best of times, more so to perform on another person who is unwilling, and even more so to create a spell powerful enough that it reduces their mental state to a point that they can’t revert back. But these are the Ugandans, and they are particularly talented in that area.”

“Interesting,” said Draco, thinking of the brief time he had spent as a ferret. He only found it mildly so; he was enjoying more his mother’s happy voice and wanted to keep her talking as long as possible.

“Your mother is extremely good at it,” commented Lucius from behind the paper. “Transfiguration was her best subject. The Ugandans could learn a thing or two from her.”

“Lucius.” Narcissa shook her head as if exasperated, but she was still smiling.

“She can create delicious sandwiches out of next-to-nothing, as I recall. Especially during troll-hunts.”

“ _Lucius._ ”

“What?” Draco sat bolt upright again and looked at Narcissa in disbelief. “When did you go _troll_ hunting?!”

“We _didn’t_ ,” Narcissa emphasized, eyebrows lowering as she stared hard at Lucius’s paper as if daring him to reveal his face. “Not on purpose.”

That only made him more curious. “How do you go troll-hunting on _accident_?”

“You go on a walk in the mountains and get caught in a thunderstorm,” said Lucius. He was still completely hidden behind the paper, but Draco got the sense that he was smirking.

“When did this happen?” Draco pressed, trying and failing to imagine his pristine mother and father walking arm-in-arm through troll-infested mountain paths.

“One summer when we were still in school,” said Narcissa with a shake of her head. The clock began to strike ten. “It’s far too long of a story to tell now.”

Lucius folded the paper and looked up at the clock. “Oh, look at the time. I suppose we should all be off to bed.”

Narcissa was still glaring in Lucius’s direction. He made eye contact with her and lifted his eyebrows innocently. Her eyes narrowed, but Draco could see one corner of her mouth threatening to tug into a smile.

“That’s unfair, starting a story like that and refusing to tell it,” Draco complained, but he took the hint and stood up anyway.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” said Lucius, also standing. “When your mother is less liable to murder me.”

Draco retreated to his room with an inward smirk and a lighter step than he’d known for months. Once in the room, he felt some of the weight settle back onto him, constricting his lungs. But as he got into bed he closed his eyes and pictured his mother and decided that, just for tonight, he would try not drinking any potions, just to see what would happen.

*

As a result of his decision, Draco spent an hour the next morning on the floor, arms wrapped tight around his legs as he shivered and bit down on his knuckles with his eyes shut tight. But after he had packed away his thoughts and memories, he was able to pull himself together and go downstairs to eat breakfast with Narcissa.

“Where’s Father?” he asked after exchanging morning pleasantries.

“Still sleeping,” said Narcissa, pouring herself a cup of tea.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance I’ll hear that troll story?”

“Very little.” Narcissa sighed and shook her head. “I can’t _believe_ he would bring that up after all these years…”

Draco sat in silence for another minute or so wondering how to ask his next question before venturing. “He’s still…all right, then?”

“Never better,” Narcissa replied without hesitation. “Tea?”

Draco felt much more reserved today than he had the previous evening, but even as he wandered the house trying to find something to do it was with a sense of measured calm.

It wasn’t until the third day that the measured calm began to be interspersed with a measure of apprehension. Whether it was justified or conjured by his own mind, Draco couldn’t tell. Perhaps it had something to do with the _Daily Prophet_ reporting on the disappearance of old Borgin from _Borgin and Burke’s._ The smarmy shop-master had escaped any serious punishments due to the lack of evidence of serious crimes, and therefore had only been heavily fined for possession of illegal objects of Dark Magic. He’d managed to keep his shop running until the previous week when, without any warning, he simply stopped running the shop. When someone finally investigated, the shop and his apartment above it were in perfect order. Nothing missing, not even personal possessions. He simply was nowhere to be found. It was speculated he had decided to skip town and take up a new identity across borders.

On the fourth morning, he got up and sent a letter to Luna.

_Luna,_

_You may have forgotten, but you said you were going to invite me over at some point. It is a little rude of you to not say anything at all._

_I know you’ve got plenty to do and it’s a little selfish of you to be keeping it all to yourself. I am bored out of my mind and I expect entertainment._

_Draco_

On the fifth morning, they had some unwelcome visitors. Two of them. Unfamiliar Aurors. And for the first time in a long time, Draco witnessed the rapid and complete transformation of his parents from relaxed and happy to cold, still, and aristocratic.

“Hello ladies,” said Narcissa coldly as she stood in the front hall with her hands behind her back. “How may I help you?”

Draco and Lucius had reacted more slowly and were still on the stairs. Draco hurried down to stand next to Narcissa, Lucius close behind him, and all three Malfoys stood glowering in a disapproving line.

“Just following orders, Mrs. Malfoy,” said the taller of the two, a woman with short curly brown hair. “This won’t last long. Don’t mind us.” And she and her shorter female companion walked past them and straight into the library like they owned the place.

Narcissa’s lips were thin and pale. She turned and glanced at Draco, and then her gaze flickered past him to Lucius. She stepped to her husband and took his arm and Draco saw his fists relax. They turned silently and headed back up the stairs. Draco started to follow them, then hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder, then back at his parents, then over his shoulder. He made up his mind and walked into the library.

The Aurors turned to look at him as he entered. Draco ignored them, walking to a bookcase and running his finger over the spines as if they weren’t there. There was a long moment of silence. Draco finished dragging his finger along one shelf of books. He took one step backwards, tapped his chin while surveying the shelves, then stepped closer to it again and ran his finger along the spines of the books on the shelf directly above the first.

One of the Aurors cleared her throat. Draco ignored her. He picked out one book, flipped it open, pretended to read a few lines, then shook his head, put it back and continued with his imaginary search. Another throat-clearing. Draco was suddenly, vividly reminded of a certain professor that had always worn pink. He almost smirked, but managed to hold it in.

“Mr. Malfoy.”

He turned, lifting his eyebrows and blinking rapidly as if extremely surprised to see the Aurors standing there. “Yes?”

The curly-haired one stared at him. “Can we help you with something?”

“Well,” Draco pretended to consider the question, then said with mock sincerity. “Seeing as this is my manor, I think the answer would be… _no_ , don’t you?”

The Aurors glanced at each other.

“However,” Draco continued. “I think the more appropriate question would be…can _I_ help _you_ with something? Seeing as this is my manor, you understand, and you are here without invitation.”

The Auror sighed and shook her head, turning away. “Very well, Mr. Malfoy, have it your way.” Draco went back to pretending to look for a book while the two Aurors circled the room, murmuring softly too each other. Draco strained his ears, trying to catch what they said, but in vain. After a few minutes they headed to the door. Draco immediately turned and followed them, hands in his pockets. They went into the dining room next, their voices slightly louder now. Draco slipped in behind them and stood by the door.

“—odd, you don’t think—”

“I doubt it, but we have to be sure. Why it was even ordered in the first place—”

“He’s a bit obsessive. Surely you’ve noticed.”

“Obviously. But still, we need to find them…”

“Can I help you find something?” Draco asked loudly. Both of the Aurors jumped.

The curly-haired one spluttered. “What—why are you following us?”

“Why are you in my manor?” Draco countered, leaning against the door with his hands in his pockets.

“We’re on official Ministry business,” said the curly-haired Auror. “And if you keep interfering—”

“I’m not interfering,” Draco drawled. “I actually just offered to help you. And I don’t need any sort of permit to walk around my own property. This is my manor, in case you’ve forgotten already. And while you may not need my permission to trespass on my property, I certainly don’t need your permission to walk around my own manor and stand in whatever room I feel like.”

The two Aurors looked at each other again in seeming disbelief. Draco smirked, even as he burned with anger inside.

“Let’s just hurry,” said the shorter one. “Ignore him.”

So they did, even as Draco determinedly trailed them through every single room in the house, finishing at last with the upstairs sitting room, where his parents both sat silently, looking from Draco to the Aurors as Draco stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the intruders. The two women took only a moment to glance around the sitting room, and then the curly-haired one, to Draco’s surprise and discomfort, marched straight up to where his parents sat and said bluntly, “Where have you put them?”

Lucius and Narcissa glanced at each other, then looked back at the Aurors. In unison, as if psychically linked, they both stood. The Auror stepped hurriedly back.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” said Narcissa calmly.

“We’ve been sent to collect some items left here by the Ministry some time ago,” said the Auror. “Where have you put them?”

“Ohhhh,” said Narcissa in a drawn-out tone. “I suppose you mean the ugly knick-knacks your idiot compatriots left strewn about my house to try and spy on us and expected me to not notice.”

Draco’s mouth dropped open. The Auror stiffened. Lucius looked at Narcissa, looking utterly dumfounded.

“They’re in the back of my closet,” said Narcissa calmly. “I’ll have my house-elf fetch them for you. Nippy!” Nippy appeared, received the order, and quickly left. In the half-minute she was gone, nobody said anything. Narcissa stared coldly at the Auror, almost without blinking. The Auror in turn looked about the room absently, trying, Draco thought, to act like Narcissa’s stare wasn’t unnerving. Lucius had gone very still, staring into the unlit fireplace with a tense expression.

Nippy reappeared with the box. The Aurors looked through it quickly, consulted a piece of parchment, and then followed Nippy downstairs and out of the house without a word.

Nobody said a thing until the front door closed. Then, without moving, still staring into the fireplace, Lucius said in a low voice, “Narcissa. What were those?” She didn’t answer right away, and he said slightly louder, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Draco,” said Narcissa softly, and Draco unfroze. “Can you give us some time alone, please?”

Draco nodded and hurried towards the door, but not quite fast enough because he was still within earshot when he heard Lucius shout, “Goddamn it, Narcissa, why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Draco spent the next several hours in the far reaches of the house, biting his nails and sitting on attic steps and trying and failing to read, fighting to keep the visons at bay, apprehensive and wondering whether the wonderful half-dream he’d been living in was about to completely reverse itself. But that evening, when Nippy came to fetch him for dinner, there were no ominous undertones between his parents. The conversation was subdued, and Lucius seemed to be brooding, but he also reached across the table and took Narcissa’s hand at one point, and she had given him a tired smile, and he had returned it, and Draco took a deep breath.

Not quite destroyed, then.

The sixth day was one of the best and worst of his life. Late that morning he received a short note from Luna.

_Dear Draco,_

_Of course you’re welcome to come over whenever you like, but I’ll be out until around 5 o’clock today. You can help me clear out the upstairs room if you like, or we could just talk. I’d like to do either._

_Luna_

_P.S. If you do want to help clear out the room wear something that isn’t very nice, if you own anything like that. I’d hate to ruin your nice clothes._

He scribbled a reply, waited around the house for a few hours, then changed into something a bit more plain, told Nippy that he was going out should his parents inquire, and left. At the Apparition checkpoint, when the same monotone Scottish clerk from last Christmas asked him how long he would be gone, he hesitated, not having any idea. “Eleven,” he said after a moment’s pause, just to be on the safe side. He couldn’t imagine staying later than a few hours.

He knocked on Luna’s door a half-hour later. Luna answered it, wearing a paint-stained shirt and with her thick hair gathered up in a knot at the nape of her neck.

“Hello, Draco!” she said, smiling widely, wand in one hand, her cheeks tinged pink.

“Hello,” he answered, moving to step past her. Luna, however, stepped forward, giving him an unexpected hug. For once, she didn’t smell like strawberries. She smelled like dust. Before he could react, she stepped back and ushered him in.

“So, what do you want to do?” she asked, closing the door behind him.

“I’ve come to help,” he said, looking quickly around the room and towards the stairs, remembering how dank and disheveled the place had seemed six months ago. It already looked cleaner.

“All right then,” said Luna, sticking her wand behind her ear. “Come up here.” She led him up the stairs into the top room, where he’d eavesdropped on her and Xenophilius arguing over Quibbler editorials. The transformation was immediately evident. Instead of nameless clutter piled around the edges of the room—papers, knick-knacks, furniture, broken plates—everything had been sorted into piles, furniture pushed back against the wall, rug rolled up neatly on one side, leaving a large empty space in front of the fire.

“I’ve been meaning to try and repair these,” said Luna, gesturing to a swept-up pile of shattered dishes, chipped figurines, and a few chairs with broken legs. “They’ve been broken a while, though, so it won’t be as simple. And I need to take those down to the yard. And I need to clean these—”

She pointed to each of the piles in the room, stating what still needed to be done. She had one hand on her hip and sunlight streamed through the window to light on her hair. Draco looked away from her and towards where she pointed with difficulty. He ended up sitting on a stool, sorting through pieces of glass, clay, and ceramic to try and re-assemble the broken objects. Luna got to work hanging a few different rugs out of the windows and shaking the dust from them—and Draco assumed he knew why she, herself, was so dusty.

“Have you been doing this all day every day since getting back?” He called loudly so she could hear him with her head out the window.

“Oh, no, I’ve had to go into town as well—meetings with Bilius and our intern—”

“Quibbler’s good, then?”

“Fine,” she pulled her head back in the window, put her wand back behind her ear, and rubbed sweat from her forehead.

Draco was holding a clay sculpture of a chimera with one hand, stirring gingerly through the pile of various broken pieces looking for the missing goat-horn. “Why’re there so many broken dishes in here?”

“Accidents,” said Luna vaguely. She passed him on her way to the stairs, and pointed to the figure he was holding. “Daddy picked that up in Greece ten years ago. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Mm-hm.”

She disappeared down the steps. He heard her rummaging around in the room below. _Ah-ha!_ He picked up a thin, uneven rod of clay and matched it up to the goat’s head. As he re-attached it he called out again, “How is Kent?”

“It’s all right,” her voice floated back up. “He hasn’t written me for a while though. I sent another letter to him yesterday, and attached a note to the management to ask why not—ow!”

Draco set down the chimera next to a repaired bowl and china teacup and went over to the stairs. “You okay?”

“I pinched my finger.” She came back up the stairs, lips wrapped around the tip of her finger. “I’m fine.”

Draco inexplicably flushed and returned to his seat. He cleared his throat. “When was the last time you got a letter?”

“I’m not sure. Before NEWTs.” She frowned as she began to move some of the piles of paper into a box. She added, quietly, “I’m a little worried, to be honest.”

 _Not worried. Hurt,_ Draco thought to himself. “I’m sure there’s an explanation,” he said as casually as he could as he re-attached a sliver of glass to a plate. “Could be their owl’s got sick, or hurt. Or there’s a careless employee who’s too lazy to post what he’s written, or has forgotten to.” He paused, then added lazily, “If they don’t fix the problem I’ll threaten them for you, if you like.”

Luna giggled and he flushed again, not unpleasantly. “That wouldn’t go over well.”

“Yeah, well, my infamous mark may as well be useful for _something._ ”

He finished making repairs, then they worked on moving the boxes Luna had packed to the attic or to the basement, or to the front yard where she said she would get rid of them later. The outside grew dark as they slowly cleared out the upper room, then cleaned it free of the gathered dust and grime, then Luna directed Draco on where to put the furniture. They spent several minutes trying to get the clock to hang exactly straight. They were both red-faced and sweating when they finished, but Luna crossed her arms and surveyed the room with pride. “Finally,” she sighed. The clock on the wall struck the time. “Goodness, it’s nine already. I’m hungry, what about you?”

“Starving,” Draco concurred, realizing it for the first time.

Luna wiped her face on her sleeve and nodded. “Let’s eat in the kitchen.” She led the way down the steps. “This’ll take me a minute, if you want to wash off first?”

Draco did, getting some (but not all) of the grime from his face and hands. He considered rolling up his sleeves to wash the sweat from his arms, but as his fingers hovered above his wrist he felt whispers pressing against his ears. So he pulled his hand away and returned to the kitchen. Luna had droplets of water in her hair and on her nose when he returned, though there remained a few dark streaks across her cheek and forehead. They sat down at the table on two sides of the same corner and spent several minutes eating ham and cheese sandwiches and drinking lemonade without saying anything.

“How’s your week been?” Luna asked abruptly after finishing her second sandwich and licking her fingers.

“All right,” said Draco, and he meant it. “Surprisingly. Had some Aurors come through yesterday, though.” Luna shook her head in a disapproving manner. “But they were clearing out stuff they’d put there to spy on us, so…that’s good, I guess.”

“The things Nippy came to see you about?” Luna asked.

He was surprised that she remembered. “Yeah, actually.”

Luna stretched her arms above her head and yawned. “That sounds promising. They might be beginning to trust you.”

“I doubt it.” Draco shrugged. Luna leaned over and plucked another sandwich from the tray. A strand of her hair came loose and brushed by her face. Draco watched her settle back in her seat, brushing the strand behind her ear. She glanced at him and he hastily looked away, his heartrate quickening. As if in response to his reaction, a creeping feeling crawled up his neck and he gritted his teeth, trying to ignore it.

“Have you done much work like this before?” she asked suddenly. “You picked it up quickly.”

Draco looked towards the front door and did his best to sound casual as he separated his thoughts into boxes and tried to push the doors closed. “No. Closest I came was detention with Slughorn.”

“Well, thank you for helping me.”

He twisted his fingers under the table. “You’re welcome.”

Luna leaned forward again, this time to pick up her glass of lemonade. She wiped her lips. Draco closed his eyes. _Get a hold of yourself._ He clenched his fingers around his knee.

“Are you all right?” Luna asked, her voice sounding far away.

_No._

He felt the chasm at his feet, and he got angry. Angry that these two sides were constantly warring in him, angry that the darkness would choose to show itself at this time, in this moment, when all he wanted was to—

“Draco?”

“I want to kiss you.” His voice came out loud, jarring, and on edge. He hadn’t meant to say it. But it worked. The opening door stopped moving and he shoved it closed with one final push. He turned to look at Luna, bracing himself for her look of surprise.

But she didn’t look surprised. She had rested her chin on her hands and was studying him. “All right, then. Go ahead.”

He sat up. “What?”

“You aren’t drunk now,” said Luna matter-of-factly. “So I don’t mind.”

“What?”

“I didn’t want to be kissed by someone who only had the courage to do so because his inhibitions were lowered,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And, of course, I didn’t want to be kissed for the first time so quickly that I didn’t have any warning. Neither case applies now, so you may kiss me if you like.”

He just stared at her. She folded her arms on the table and gazed back, almost without blinking. He felt as though his hands were tied to the chair. He saw how small the space between them was. He only had to lean forward, but the more he thought about it, the more impossible it seemed to accomplish. His stomach twisted in knots.

“If it helps,” Luna ventured at last, “I would like to kiss you also.” Then she closed her eyes without changing position and simply sat there. There was an impossible heaviness in his chest.

_How did I get here?_

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t analyze. Couldn’t decide.

The door began to crack open again.

_No._

He placed on arm on the table and closed the space between them, kissing her quickly. Luna smiled, but she didn’t open her eyes, and she didn’t move. So he took a breath and moved in again, setting his mouth more firmly against hers. She responded. He shivered. His blood raced. He touched her neck, and her hand traced his wrist. She still smelled of dust, and sweat now too. She touched his shoulder, then his hair, running her fingers from his ears to the nape of his neck.

An internal wall crumbled and a surge of intense, description-defying emotion erupted within him. He gasped and pushed closer, and it was as if her ethereal light poured itself into him—it burned itself into every part of him, overwhelming any thought, any doubt, overflowing the cracks, filling him to bursting, and he was set free from anything to everything. She was everywhere and they were nowhere. It washed over him again and he drowned in it, reveled in it—its intensity, its recklessness, its overwhelming, blinding, painful, desperate, defiant joy—

Luna pulled back and Draco was suddenly aware of an acute pain in his thighs. He had half-stood, leaning over the table and over her, and the edge pressed hard against his legs. Her fingers rested on his neck and her breath brushed his face. Draco didn’t move back, didn’t dare open his eyes, feeling still the memory of mindless euphoria, feeling still the lingering impression of her mouth on his, feeling still himself floating in an uncontrollable whirlpool of thoughtless feelings.

She whispered, “When do you need to go back?”

He didn’t want to speak. Wanted to cling to the moment that was already fading. “I…um.” He licked his lips, cleared his throat. “I told them eleven.”

“Come with me. I want to show you something.”

She took his hand and stood up. He opened his eyes reluctantly as she tugged him towards the front door. They stepped outside and rounded the house to its backside. The night air was warm, and a moon sliver shone bright above them. There was a ladder leaning against the back wall. Luna let go of his hand to move it to one side, setting it firmly on the ground and giving it a few good shakes to ensure it was in place. Then she began to climb. Bemused and fascinated, Draco followed close behind. At the top of the ladder, one floor up, Luna stepped off onto a small flat portion of the roof. Then, like a cat, she simply climbed up it, finding small steps in the multi-tiered roof with ease. Draco watched carefully where she was putting her hands and feet. They arrived at the very top of the roof where there was a large, even flat circle, large enough to accommodate several people.

“What’s this?” He asked, breaking the silence. The few-and-far lights of Ottery St Catchpole twinkled in the distance.

“I come up here to stargaze.” Luna took his hand again, tugging on his arm as she sat down cross-legged on the roof.

“I guess I should’ve guessed that.” He sat down next to her. “It’s a nice view.”

She pulled gently at his collar. This time, it wasn’t at all difficult to kiss her again. Her eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks. Instead of overwhelming fire, his veins ignited in a slow burn. It wasn’t the same as earlier—nothing ever would be—but the glow was warm and fulfilling and he wrapped his arm around her.

A minute later Luna raised her face towards the sky. “If we watch long enough, we might see a shooting star.”

Draco looked up as well. Then he lay back on the roof, one arm behind his head. A moment later Luna lay down beside him, curling on her side so that her head rested on his shoulder and her hand on his chest.

“If we were to see a star,” she commented, “And you could wish to have anything, right now, what would it be?”

A pain flared in his arm, then dissipated. He blinked. “I don’t know,” he said, because that was easier in the truth. Then, to banish the intruding thoughts, he turned his head and kissed her again.

“Me neither. Right now, I feel perfectly happy.”

They lay there for so long that Draco’s arm began to fall asleep and his back began to get sore, but he didn’t move except to periodically kiss her. They did not see any shooting stars. In the middle of one of these kisses, through the roof, the clock chimed the three-quarters hour. “Damn it. I have to go.”

“Do they really care?” Luna asked, sitting up.

He sat up more slowly and reluctantly. “I don’t know. But given that Peasegood uses every excuse he can to get me in trouble, I don’t want to tempt fate—or parole officers.”

They climbed down and Draco retrieved his jacket and wand from inside. Luna asked, “Is it all right if I walk you back?”

Those words sent the warm glow through him again. “Of course not, if you don’t.” He held out his hand to her and she took it, then they hurried back to the sleeping village to the checkpoint, making it there at precisely eleven o’clock.

Luna held more tightly to his hand. “We could walk for a bit,” she suggested after they Apparated back to the checkpoint near the manor. “Unless you’re tired.”

So they stalled for nearly forty-five minutes longer, walking slowly towards nowhere in particular, until Draco finally turned them back towards the manor and they made their way along the tall outside wall that marked the edges of his property. He stopped just before the gate, so that the wall still blocked the sight of the manor and turned to face her. “Well—goodnight, I suppose.”

Luna wrapped her arms tight around him. He stood still a moment before returning the hug. She rested her head against his shoulder. The seconds passed slowly, Draco slightly confused about what he was supposed to be doing—if anything. The Malfoys never hugged like this. Not even his mother had ever simply _held_ him for so long—at least, not that he could remember. Gradually, after the first minute passed, he began to relax back into her, resting his head on hers and looking out at the night, hands clasped together at the small of her back. The feeling from earlier was returning—of being filled, of being pleasantly burned from the inside out from an invisible ethereal light. It wasn’t complete and overwhelming, but he closed his eyes and basked in it all the same.

“Will you be all right?” she asked at last.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.

A few beats of silence.

“Please come over whenever you like,” she said. “No owl necessary. Even if I’m not there you can come if you want or need to.”

“All right. Thank you.”

More silence.

“Thank you,” she said.

“What?” He couldn’t imagine what she could be thanking him for. Not when she was filling him to the brim; not when he couldn’t give anything back.

“For being my friend. My friend who understands.”

He didn’t know what she meant. “Er…you’re welcome.”

She let go at last and looked up at him, so of course he kissed her lightly and then turned, stepping briskly towards the gate. She trailed behind. The manor came into view through the bars. The windows of the first floor glowed softly. Draco frowned.

Luna stepped up next to him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” He studied light. “It’s just…my parents don’t usually leave the lights on.”

Luna looked from him to the windows. “Are they usually asleep now?”

“Well, yes, but even during the day they don’t…well, they aren’t lit very often.”

“Is that bad?”

He considered for a moment. “No, in fact, it might be good, but…this might mean Mother’s waiting up on me.”

“Oh. Do you want me to come in with you?”

“Better not. She might want to speak with me.”

“All right then. Goodnight.” Luna stood up on her toes, pecked him lightly once more, and then skipped off down the lane to get clear of the anti-Disapparation enchantments. Draco watched her go, unconsciously smiling, until she disappeared into the darkness. Then he stepped through the gate. The lights in the windows went out. He smile faded.

Coincidence?

Draco crossed the lonely, cobblestone courtyard. It was utterly silent and still. Too much so, as if the world was holding its breath and waiting. He paused for a few seconds on the doorstep, hand raised, then drew his wand, unlocked the large door, and pushed it open. It swung heavily on silent hinges. Draco slipped inside. “ _Lumos,”_ he murmured, still standing in the half-open doorway. He raised his wand. “Hello?” His voice echoed in the empty hall. The hair on the back of his neck stood up on end and his heartrate increased, but he had no idea why. Still facing forward with his wand raised, he pushed the door closed and took another few steps. “Mother? Is anybody—?”

Out of the corners of his eyes, he noticed two things at once: the first was that the walls suddenly glistened and moved strangely, like a mirage. The second was that all of the portraits on the walls were empty.

Draco clapped his hands above his head. Light blazed the hall, and it was full of people, all shouting and flashes bombarded and exploded against Draco’s domed shield. A moment later the light cleared. The chandelier glowed, freshly lit. A dozen wizards surrounded him, wands pointed at his glistening shield.

“Let down your shield, Mr. Malfoy,” said a familiar voice from behind him that he couldn’t quite place.

“Who the _devil_ are you?” he choked out, already trembling with the effort of keeping the protective charm in place.

The speaker rounded him, coming into view, and planted himself directly in front of him. “Lower your wand, Mr. Malfoy,” said Maguire Savage, Head Auror at the Ministry of Magic.

Draco, sparks exploding from behind his eyes, let go of the shield. It disappeared in a golden flash, but he kept his wand raised. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Lower your wand.”

“Why? So you can stun me or disarm me?”

Savage looked steadily into his eyes. “We will not stun or disarm you if you give us no reason to.”

Draco stared back into the piercing gaze, conscious of every wand tip pointed at him, his every nerve and muscle tensed, his ears straining for any sound or sign of another Malfoy in the house. He found none. With an enormous effort, he aimed his wand tip to the floor. In response, Savage raised a hand. Draco noticed the other Aurors glancing at each other, several looking rebellious, but then they, too, lowered their wands, though they did not move, keeping him encircled.

His heart pounded painfully in his chest, angry and frightened. He fought to keep his voice steady. “Mr. Savage, I want to speak to my parents.”

“May I ask where you were tonight, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco fixed his gaze back on the Head Auror, speaking quietly, voice trembling with the effort and fear. “See here, I have followed every order you’ve given—obeyed to the letter every stipulation—”

“Nobody has disputed that, Mr. Malfoy,” said Savage calmly. He stood with his feet shoulder-distance apart, back straight, both arms at his sides, wand held firmly. A ready position. A soldier’s position, like someone waiting for an attack. “Answer the question.”

“If you had _checked_ with the Apparition _check_ point,” Draco spat. “You would know I was at Ottery St. Catchpole!”

“Doing what?”

“Visiting a friend,” said Draco obstinately.

“What friend?”

“Luna Lovegood.”

Two unknown Aurors let out indignant snorts that were nearly laughs. One of them spoke up. “You would have us believe that you were paying a friendly visit to Miss Luna Lovegood, the very person whom you and your family imprisoned in this very manor during the War?”

Draco did not dare look away from Savage, who was not smiling or laughing. “If you don’t believe me, ask Luna herself. And if you don’t believe her, ask any student at Hogwarts who likes to gossip. Now, I want to see my parents. Where are you keeping them? Where are they?”

Savage regarded him silently for several moments. “We don’t know.”

Draco’s blood froze. “What?” Savage just looked at him. All feelings of indignation evaporated into mist. He whispered, “They aren’t here?”

“I’m going to have to ask you to come with us.”

His voice came out nearly at a scream. “They aren’t _here_? What have you _done_ with them?”

Every Auror took a step closer; several wands went up. Draco realized only then that he had raised his own wand again, pointing it directly at Savage. Savage still did not move. “Keep calm, Mr. Malfoy.”

Panic took over; he couldn’t process. Couldn’t believe it. They wouldn’t be gone. They couldn’t just be _gone._ He looked at each of the silent Aurors in turn, half-expecting his parents to suddenly emerge from thin air, bound and gagged. “ _Where are they?_ ”

“A question we had hoped you would answer.” Savage raised his hand again, halting the progress of the other Aurors. “We need you to come with us.”

“Where?”

“To the Ministry, for now.”

“What, and Azkaban later?”

Savage’s eyebrows lifted the tiniest fraction. “I would hope not.”

Footsteps from the other room. Draco’s gaze flashed to it, holding his breath in anticipation and hope and— “ _Potter?_ ” His voice came out in a murderous hiss, and every Auror took another step closer. Savage didn’t stop them.

Potter had just come through the doorway, accompanied by another Auror. He looked breathless and disheveled, like he’d been summoned from bed and forced to throw on yesterday’s robes. “Sir, there’s no sign of them on the grounds.”

Seeing Potter made something snap. Draco shouted. “Get out of my manor! All of you! Get _out!_ ” His hand shook. His mind raced. Making plans, then contingency plans, then emergency plans, then—

“Mr. Malfoy,” said Savage again. “You are to come with us, and if you cannot control yourself, I’m going to have to ask you to hand over your wand.”

Draco glared at him, his breath hissing through his gritted teeth. “No.”

“Malfoy—”

“No,” said Draco, louder. “I am _not_ handing over my wand and I am _not_ being imprisoned in the Ministry. You have _no right_ to be here when I haven’t done anything wrong and you haven’t got any reason to think I have! Now,” He looked back at Potter who was staring fixedly at him. His wand was nowhere in sight. “All of you _get out._ ”

Instead of obeying his wishes, Savage suddenly spoke very loudly. “At 11:34pm this evening the charms set upon this house by the Ministry of Magic were lifted. As we reached this manor, Disapparition was detected and the charms were immediately reinstated.”

“No,” said Draco, feeling very numb. “No, no, no, you’ve taken them somewhere.” _It’s the Ministry. It’s got to be the Ministry. Merlin, please let this be the Ministry._

“Malfoy, we haven’t,” Potter spoke up.

Draco kept his eyes on Savage even as he snarled, “And the Ministry’s always been upfront with you about this sort of things, has it, Potter?”

_The Ministry has them somewhere. They’re lying. Savage is lying._

“Potter,” said Savage, similarly keeping his eyes fixed on Draco. “Please remain silent or I will have to ask you to leave. You must realize, Mr. Malfoy, how this looks? You parents have broken their parole.”

“No!” Draco’s numbness shattered, a paralyzing fear setting in. “No, you don’t understand—”

“You know, I presume, of the disappearances from Azkaban?”

“Yes! Yes, exactly!”

“The most obvious explanation is that your family has assisted in breaking out convicted Death Eaters and have now vanished themselves.”

“No!” The room tilted slowly. His hand shook as he whirled to face the other Aurors. Several of them stepped back. “No, don’t you get it? They hate us! The Death Eaters hate us! They’ll be coming for us now! They’ve come for my parents, and they have them!” There was no mercy on anybody’s face. He spun back around and accidentally made eye contact with Potter, who was looking at him very hard. “This is it,” he said, staring back at Potter, almost pleading with him and hating himself for it, but being too desperate to really care. “We’ve been waiting for this, don’t you get it?”

Had he really been completely happy a mere hour ago? Had everything really been serenely perfect? Had he really forgotten the true state of the world, his inescapable fate? Had he really believed, just for a moment, just for an instant, that everything wasn’t all destined for ashes? He felt dizzy and the walls of the room seemed to ripple and the mark on his arm laughed at him.

There was a sudden flurry of activity. Savage and Potter’s eyes both went to the door behind Draco.

“What’s going on?” Luna’s serene tones had the slightest edge to them. “Draco?”

Draco spun around. The sight of her was simultaneously a balm to his panic and a slap in the face. “What are you doing here?”

“I decided to come check on you,” said Luna. “I heard shouting, and you’d seemed worried.”

Savage inserted another maddeningly calm question. “Why were you worried, Mr. Malfoy?”

“You left the lights on!” said Draco hotly. “My parents never—”

But Savage wasn’t listening. “Miss Lovegood, I presume?” Draco looked over his shoulder at him.

“Yes, Mr. Head Auror, and I can assure you Draco’s done nothing wrong. He was at my house all evening, helping me clean it up a bit.”

He remembered the feeling of her lips and tongue and he flushed. Savage’s face was impenetrable, but Potter looked surprised, exceedingly curious, and very suspicious. His gaze darted from Luna to Draco to Savage.

“Very well, Miss Lovegood, thank you for that confirmation. Unfortunately, we still have the matter at hand of the Malfoys’ illegal Disapparation.”

“You aren’t _listening_ to me!” Draco shouted. “My parents did not just Disapparate out—they were _taken by force,_ either by you lot or by _Death Eaters!_ ” He raised his wand again, and again all attention of the room was fixed on him. He dimly wondered why Savage didn’t just let them stun him and be over with it.

Savage regarded him again, and in the brief silence Luna said, “Don’t shout, Draco, it’ll only make them angry.”

Then Savage said briskly, “Call the house-elf.”

 _Nippy!_ Why hadn’t he thought of that? “Call her,” he repeated. “Why? Where is she?”

“She has barricaded herself in an upper room and refuses to come out.”

A swell of hope filled Draco’s chest. “So they might—”

“There are no human presences in this house other than ourselves,” said Savage. “We’ve ensured it.”

Some of the hope died, but not all of it. Draco raised his voice, automatically glancing at the ceiling. “NIPPY!”

With a crack, she appeared in front of Draco, her skinny arms up over her head. She crouched and looked alarmed at the Aurors. She was dressed in the tea-towel adorned by bluebells. “Master Malfoy!” she squeaked.

“Elf,” said Savage. “Do you know what has happened to the elder Malfoys?”

Nippy looked terrified, glancing quickly from Savage to Draco and back again. “Answer the question,” Draco ordered.

“Please don’t be angry with Nippy, Master…” she pleaded.

“I’m not angry,” said Draco quickly, truthfully. On the contrary, he thought he’d never been gladder to see the house-elf in his life. “Just tell us what happened.”

“Nippy was in the kitchen,” said Nippy, trembling from head to toe. “When she felt the magic leave the house. She immediately went to see if Master Malfoy was home and safe, and he was not, so she went to her other Master and Mistress to see that they were all right, and the room was terribly silent and dark, but she saw figures moving and then she was thrown backwards by magic—” she twisted her head around to look at an Auror who had moved closer, and with a sickening lurch of rage Draco saw congealed blood at the base of her skull and red stains splotched on the white of the tea towel. “—she revived quickly, but before she could move again there was the sound of Disapparation from within her Master and Mistress’s room. And then these strange wizards broke into the house and she hid because she had been ordered not to attack them, ordered not to move, to keep Master Malfoy safe when he came home—” Tears trembled in her eyes.

“Is that the truth, Elf?” asked Savage, and Draco suddenly wondered if it was. Nippy cowered.

“Tell the truth,” said Draco, with his tongue like lead.

“She has, she has!” wailed Nippy, “Master and Mistress are gone, Nippy has let bad Wizards into the house—” and she threw herself on the floor and began to crack her skull against it.

Draco felt a lurch of revulsion again. “Stop it!” he ordered, and she ceased immediately.

“Mr. Savage, with all due respect, we can’t expect the house-elf to answer truthfully in the presence of her master,” said one of the Aurors. “He may very well have ordered her to lie, no matter what the circumstances, before now.”

“I have not!” said Draco loudly, thinking with increasing panic of how much time had lapsed since his parents’ disappearance, and if he’d only come back sooner—his stomach rolled with fear and nausea—

Savage nodded. “Very well. You will both come back to the Ministry with us.”

Nippy looked up from the ground, fear on her face. “Master! They will not take you away?”

Draco looked around the room and felt a resolute heaviness envelope him. _No way out._ “I’m going with them,” he said reluctantly.

Nippy began to wail again. “No, Master Malfoy, you mustn’t, you mustn’t! They’ll hurt Master! They’ll hurt Master!”

“No they won’t,” Draco lied, unable to look her in the eyes as long as they were filled with such anguish.

“They have drawn their wands upon Master!”

“Only because I’ve drawn mine. They don’t trust me.” Why was he lying to comfort a house-elf?

“Nippy shall not go!” Nippy shrieked, suddenly springing up from the ground. “Nippy shall not betray Master!”

The Aurors muttered amongst themselves. Draco felt things slipping even faster out of control. They were already convinced he—or his parents—were guilty. This would be the last black mark in his ledger, he would be locked away, his parents never found—and Nippy, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks, would be left to the mercy of Wizards whom she had made life difficult for. “Listen to me,” he said, and again the back of his mind wondered why Savage was merely watching him without doing or saying anything. “Listen to me,” he said again, as Nippy clasped her hands under her chin and gazed up at him. “I want you to go with them. Go with them. I release you from any previous orders to lie, and I order you to answer them freely.” Brief mutterings, and then silence. More than ever, Draco felt fourteen pairs of eyes staring at him. He kept his gaze leveled at Nippy. She stared back with an expression that couldn’t have been more horrified than if he’d ordered her to take out a dagger and stab him to death. “Don’t look at me like that!” he said, exasperated. “I’m not sacking you, and I’m not giving you clothes. I’m saying answer their questions freely.” Nippy only looked marginally less horrified. She burst into tears again.

“Nippy will get Master’s things!” she bawled, disappearing with a crack.

One of the Aurors interjected immediately, “We can’t permit you to bring anything with you.”

“Why not?” Draco, not expecting Nippy’s disappearance, quickly recovered and scowled at him with all of the Malfoy disdain he could muster. “I can’t have my own toothbrush or a change of clothes, even though you’re dragging me in without cause?”

“We can’t permit—” began the Auror again.

“Dra—Malfoy’s right,” said Potter unexpectedly. “Prisoners are allowed to bring things if—”

“Thank you, Potter, that will do,” said Savage. “If you will please escort Miss Lovegood back to her home.”

“I’m coming too!” said Luna immediately.

“No, you’re not,” said Savage, his voice changing for the first time from calm and controlling to tired. “Potter.”

Potter didn’t move for several seconds, looking defiant, but then he went around the outside of the ring of Aurors and muttered, “Come on, Luna—”

“Really, Harry, this isn’t—”

“Come _on_.”

The door shut behind them. Nippy reappeared a moment later, a large black leather satchel gathered in her bony arms. Her appearance was markedly changed. Instead of frantic and tear-soaked, she was quiet and her wrinkled face was pale.

“Elf, we need to examine the contents of that bag,” said Savage.

Nippy ignored him, standing directly in front of Draco with her knees wobbling. “Master,” she whispered. “Mistress Malfoy wanted Nippy to tell you something.”

Savage was silent, as were the rest of the Aurors. This was something they all wanted to hear. Draco stared at Nippy, getting chills and feeling dread and hope simultaneously. “What is it?”

Nippy reached up. Draco knelt down. She put a hand softly on his arm; the strap of the bag fell and brushed against his hand. Draco was startled. House-elves never touched a Malfoy without permission. “Mistress wanted Nippy to tell Master…that she missed the sunrise this morning.”

Draco’s stomach plummeted and icy tendrils encircled his heart. He didn’t have time to hear the Aurors’ reactions to this cryptic message because the next moment Nippy gripped his arm hard and then he was whizzing through cold, dark air, being sucked along by an invisible force.

With a crack, he appeared alone in an empty field with the leather satchel beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS SHOE TO DROP.
> 
> This chapter took so long to edit. My gosh. I tried to split it into two but it really didn't want to be split. So you get all 13.7k words, which is over 2x the average chapter length. But I'm super excited to post it; I love that last scene and I've been dying to share it.
> 
> Also I'm only partially sorry for the shameless insertion of Lucissa flirting. This is a Druna fic, but I am utter Lucissa trash. They are my OTP and any chance I get to show their interactions I'm gonna take it.


	18. Chapter 18

Harry Potter was thinking very hard. He kept one hand on Luna’s arm, practically dragging her out of the Malfoys’ front gate over her protests.

“But Harry—we have to make them understand—Draco’s done nothing wrong, I know it—”

“I believe you.” He let go of her once they were beyond the sight of anyone in the manor. “What about Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy? Do you think he’s right?”

“They won’t have done anything,” said Luna earnestly. “I’m sure of it. Draco’s told me—they haven’t left the manor at all if they can help it, they’re afraid of being targeted by…well, everyone. It’s been that way all year.” She wrapped her arms around herself and looked hard in the direction of the manor. “But Harry, I have to tell him—the Head Auror—if he thinks Draco’s lying—”

“I don’t think he does.”

Luna stopped, turning to stare at him, her large eyes reflecting moonlight. “He believes him?”

Harry ran his fingers through his hair, trying to push back the desire to go back to bed. “Or at least, believes that Malfoy believes what he’s saying. Savage is a bit…weird, to be honest. But good.”

“Is he a Legilimens?” she asked abruptly. “It felt like he was when he looked at me.”

“I’m not sure,” Harry admitted. “He gives off that vibe, but if it is Legilimency it’s not the usual kind.” He beckoned to her and started walking. “Come on.”

Luna bounced on her toes, looking in the direction of the manor again. “Harry, we can’t _leave._ I have to know what’s happened—didn’t you see Draco’s face? Something _terrible_ has happened.”

“I know. Something terrible has been happening for a while, and I’m pretty sure Savage has been monitoring it. Now come on, we have to get past the anti-Disapparition charms.”

“Harry Potter, I am _not_ going home until know what’s happening!”

“I’m not _taking_ you home, Luna!” Harry said in exasperation. “I’m taking you to my apartment! Now, come _on!_ ”

“Your—” Luna began, but she was interrupted by several loud bangs that echoed across the Malfoys’ property. Harry and Luna looked wide-eyed at each other, and then both at once ran back through the gate and up the path towards the manor. Harry could hear shouting. His mind came alive with visions of Death Eaters, or traps, or—

“Stay behind me,” he ordered Luna and she stepped into his shadow. He drew his wand and threw open the front door.

The shouts stopped and several Aurors whirled and made as if to stun him. Blinking in the light, Harry saw—nothing. No battle, no Death Eaters, no traps. What he did see was a stunned house-elf on the ground.

“I thought I told you to take Miss Lovegood home, Potter,” said Savage, looking up from the house-elf.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Harry, feeling foolish as he lowered his wand. “I heard the shouts and—”

“Where’s Draco?” Luna asked suddenly, pushing in from behind Harry. She stopped at the sight of the house-elf. “What’s wrong with Nippy?”

“No harm done,” said Savage to Harry. “Miss Lovegood, the house-elf has Dispparated Draco Malfoy away. Where would she send him?”

Harry sucked in his breath. _Malfoy, you idiot._

Luna looked from Nippy to Savage. “I—I don’t know—”

“He was at your residence earlier. Would he return there?”

“I don’t know…”

“With your permission, we’ll send someone over to check at once.”

“I…suppose…”

“Very good. Berkely?”

“Yes sir.” Frances Berkely immediately passed Harry and hurried down the walkway.

“We shouldn’t have let them keep their house-elf!” said one of the Aurors. “We should have seen that this would happen! She’s got them all out, now, clearly!”

“If the house-elf had Apparated the elder Malfoys away she would have had no need to shut down the anti-Apparition charms,” said Savage calmly. “Rennervate.”

The house-elf—Nippy—stirred on the ground, blinked rapidly, and sat up.

“Nippy,” said Savage. “Where did you send Draco Malfoy?”

Nippy continued to blink, looking up at Savage in a disoriented way. She slowly got to her feet, glanced around at the Aurors. She pressed her hands against her chest, shoulders curling inwards as if she was being buffeted by a cold wind, and said in a whisper, “Nippy won’t tell.”

There was a cry of indignation from one of the Aurors. “Your master ordered you to answer our questions,” Savage reminded her.

“No.” Nippy straightened. She looked up at Savage. “No!” she said more loudly, her eyes suddenly bright and angry. “ _No!_ Master Malfoy tells Nippy to answer Ministry Wizards’ questions freely. _Freely_. Nippy may _freely_ choose to answer Ministry Wizards’ questions as Nippy wishes. And Nippy wishes to answer your question that she _will not tell you!_ ” Her chest heaved and she stood rigidly with her eyes shut tight, as if waiting for punishment. She added in a slightly smaller, more questioning voice, “Begging your pardon, sir.”

Savage studied her without saying anything, but the other Aurors groaned. “Unbelievable…” Harry found himself agreeing with them. How could the Malfoys who had treated Dobby so poorly inspire such loyalty in Nippy?

“Potter,” Savage said at last. “Take Miss Lovegood home. The rest of you…” he spent the next minute giving out orders rapid-fire to each Auror, instructing them where to look. “It’s unlikely we’ll be able to find him without more direction, but we’ll cover our bases. Nippy, assuming you have no objections, you will return to the Ministry with me.”

Nippy opened one eye, glancing about her, then straightened and opened the other eye as well. “Of course sir. Master Malfoy tells Nippy to go with Ministry Wizards, and so Nippy will.”

“Excellent,” said Savage dryly. “Potter, I’ll call on you later.”

The Aurors all moved to the door, except for one who was ordered to stay and guard the house. Harry pulled Luna away again. As they hurried down the walk for the second time, she whispered to him, “Harry, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know. I’ll explain what I can in a minute.” They got free of the anti-Apparition charms. Luna held onto his arm and he Apparated them both away.

*

Draco sat on his heels unmoving, watching the darkness. The air was cool and thin and fresh against his skin. Wind rustled the long grasses and night insects buzzed quietly. The sky was made of mottled shadow, thick with clouds. After several long seconds, his whisper joined the sound of the insects.

“What…the… _hell_ …”

He looked up at the sky, then stared hard at his surroundings. The only movement visible was the wind in the long grass. The darkness made everything invisible but a five-foot radius around him. He didn’t dare get up. He looked up at the sky again. The thick clouds were only slightly illuminated by the thin sliver of moonlight, not enough to make anything out. He tried to find the horizon and failed. There was no evidence of the bright lights of London, or any other town.

He had no idea where he was.

“What the _hell_ , Nippy,” he whispered again, his heart beginning to hammer against his ribs. What had the house-elf been _thinking_? Savage would be furious. He was a fugitive. Well and truly and completely. Not by choice, of course, but they had no way of knowing that. For all the Ministry knew, he’d ordered Nippy to use her strong elf-magic to Disapprate him out of the house, Disapparition charms or no.

“Damn it.”

His throat began to close over in panic.

“ _Damn it!_ ”

His parents were gone, and he was completely alone with the entire Ministry hunting him. He covered his face with his hands and curled even further into a ball. His ankles began to burn from crouching so long.

_Think. Don’t panic. Think. Think._

His breath whistled through his teeth as he took deep, gulping breaths.

_Think!_

He forced himself to breathe more slowly and to look up again. He was still clutching his wand. And he was fairly sure he was relatively far from civilization. Nippy had zapped him into the country somewhere, far enough away to not be able to see the lights of any major cities. Which was better than the alternative—he doubted any Aurors or wizards were wandering around out here. Maybe a Muggle or two but nothing he couldn’t deal with. Maybe…just maybe…it was better this way. He doubted the Ministry would try hard to find his parents. This way, he was free of them, and could search on his own. As long as he didn’t get caught.

“ _Lumos_ ,” he said at last, standing and lifting his wand over his head. The light showed him nothing but an empty field of wild grass and weeds, some blades of which shook violently while small creatures darted away from his light. “ _Lumos Maxima._ ” The circle of light jumped out further, still showing nothing but grasses, which began to slope downhill a few meters away. He reduced the light and crouched down again, flipping open the bag. It had been extended. Hoping to find some sort of clue, he removed the clothing that had been placed on top and rooted through. He pulled out his new broom first, followed by ink, quills, parchment…a large, thick book of maps? Bewildered as to why it would be in his bag, Draco flipped open the latter and paged through it. It was a peculiar map. He recognized the landmasses, of course, and the names, but they were maps unlike any he’d seen before, crisscrossed inexplicably by a large number of lines of various colors and unfamiliar symbols. He put it aside, nerves knotting in his stomach. He pushed past another change of clothes and found a potion box like the ones Mother had sent him at school. He pulled it out and flipped it open and found a long, neat row of potions. He pulled out the stopper of one and sniffed it.

_Raspberries._

Draco shivered. It was sleeping potion. But why—

He shook his head, shut the box and reached into the bag again. He pulled out a framed family photograph from several years ago, before the world had gone to hell. He stared at it, puzzled, then reached back in. This time his hand bumped what felt like a large stack of paper: sheets of small rectangles bound with rubber. Draco frowned and pulled them out. His eyes widened and he shoved his hand back in. He felt more stacks, and small metal discs. He pulled out handfuls, staring at and comparing them, his nausea increasing as he realized what they were.

_Muggle money._

He’d only ever seen British pounds before. There were British pounds here, but also a wide variety of currencies that he’d never seen before in his life. Various colors, sizes, and amounts, but with one thing in common. All Muggle.

He dropped the stack he was holding and snatched up the book of maps. This time, on flipping through it, he realized what it was. Muggle maps.

 _No,_ he thought. _No, no, no, there’s been a mistake…this isn’t…this can’t be…_

He dug frantically through the bag again and, finally, in one corner, he found a battered envelope. He pulled it out and his heart jumped into his throat when he recognized his mother’s handwriting.

_Draco_

Hands shaking, Draco tore open the letter. _There had better be a reason—a mistake—a misunderstanding—an explanation—_

_Dear Draco,_

_If you are reading this, the most likely reason is that Nippy has successfully sent you somewhere safe. I asked her to do this in the event that something serious happens to your father and me. I pray that you never read this, darling, but if you do, you must run. Take the supplies in here and run. Run far away, to America or further, somewhere no-one knows you, and never come back. Don’t think of coming after us because, if you are reading this, it’s already too late. I have only one request, the last and most desperate wish in my life: escape and start over. Live. I know that you can._

_I love you so much, Draco. Your father loves you so much. Forever and beyond. More than you will ever know._

_Farewell._

_Mother_

Draco dropped his wand and clapped one hand over his mouth

_It’s already too late._

_It’s already too late._

She had known. She had known when she prepared this. She had known when she’d given Nippy the message. She may have even known today, before it happened, that something was about to go wrong. Had she known when he’d left for Luna’s? How could she have? Had they had any time to prepare? Had it caught them by surprise? They would have called for help if they’d had the time, wouldn’t they?

_It’s already too late._

Draco shut his eyes as they burned. He was gasping again. He was falling to pieces. He sat down on the grass, clutching his arms to his chest, crushing the letter in one hand. His arm burned fiercely. He felt the chain pulling him apart, heard the laughter of the inescapable chaos.

_No._

A spark burned in his chest. He opened his eyes.

_No._

_It’s already too late._

“Like _hell_ it is, Mother.” The spark grew into a hard, glowing ember of seething anger. The fear was still there, just behind it, strong and strengthening into iron bars. “No,” he said to it, pounding one fist on the ground. “No, Mother. I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving you. Merlin. I’m not leaving.” He shuddered, then began to shove everything back into the bag except the book of maps. “It isn’t too late. I refuse to believe that. It isn’t. It _isn’t._ ” He spent several minutes searching the pages of Great Britain, looking for marks that would indicate where he was. When he found nothing he half-heartedly flipped through the others. But there were no notes, no marks of any kind that he would see. Simply maps of nearly every country in the world, marked with the major roads and railways and airports of Muggles.

“Right,” he muttered. He pulled an extra sweater from the bag over his head, then put the map back in his bag, looped the strap over his shoulder, and stood up. He started walking. He briefly considered using his broom, but didn’t like the idea of potentially running into several Muggles. The last thing he needed was the Ministry to catch wind of a bunch of Muggles who had noticed a blond young man doing the supposedly impossible. He headed downhill, listening hard for any sound of voices. However, after nearly an hour of going over uneven ground and not seeing or hearing any sign of civilization, he mounted the broom and flew close to the ground. He spent several hours going up and down rocky slopes, though trees, then breaking out into the open again, still headed generally downhill, he caught sight of a faint shimmering ahead. He headed towards it and the ground began to level out. Then he found himself at the edge of a vast lake.

 _Hogwarts,_ was his first thought, but that was ridiculous. This lake and these grasses looked nothing like any part of the lake at Hogwarts—at least none that he’d seen. And if he was anywhere near Hogwarts, he surely would see some lights twinkling from its towers, despite it being the summer holidays. He put the broom back in his bag and began to walk along the lake’s edge. He followed its curves in and out. If it was any good-sized lake, he’d be able to use it as a landmark at least until the sun came up, and he would use his wand to ensure he wasn’t simply going in a large circle around it. Plus, lakes tended to have some sort of civilization on their edges—boat houses, docks, roads of some sort, surely. And the sun would eventually rise and he’d be able to _see._

It got colder. Draco began to walk a bit faster. He didn’t know how long he’d been going and he was tired but didn’t dare stop. He didn’t know what he’d do when he found out where he was. He didn’t know how he could explain this to the Ministry—or if he should even try, or just keep his distance and try to find his parents—Merlin, how was he even going to start to _look_?

He began to think that perhaps Narcissa had been right—this was crazy, he couldn’t possibly do anything, he didn’t know how to start. But the idea of simply abandoning his only family, of everything he’d ever known, made him sick. Someone had them. Right now. Somewhere in the world, they were imprisoned, perhaps being tortured, perhaps being killed, _now_. He couldn’t leave. He _couldn’t._

After some time of trudging along, he began to see a faint glow in the sky, enough to see that there was thick fog all around him. He continued on. The next time he looked up the fog had thinned, the sky was a bit brighter, and he stopped dead in his tracks. For the first time he could clearly see the horizon. Could clearly see the clouds, could clearly see the dark jagged lines rising up to meet them.

Mountains.

He turned around, saw the distant mountains around him, saw the hilly slopes he had walked down several miles behind him.

_Merlin’s beard, am I in the Highlands?_

He might not be so far from Hogwarts after all. The thought did not comfort him. Not knowing what else to do, he continued forward. Then, at last, he spotted a road curling down to meet the lake. It was a small road, but serviceable and not overgrown. A walking path, most likely. And, walking very quickly now, Draco finally saw a building up ahead, and a figure coming down the path towards him, a path of light swinging ahead of him. It was a man, middle-aged and bearded in a jacket and brimmed hat. It took only a glance to see that he was almost definitely a Muggle, carrying some method of portable light. A knot of disgust bound itself up in Draco’s throat and he almost let him pass without saying anything, simply out of instinct, but his common sense kicked in at the last moment.

He swallowed his pride. “Excuse me.”

The Muggle stopped and turned to look at him. Draco held his breath, but no recognition crossed the man’s features. The Muggle frowned, and Draco wondered just how out-of-place he looked. He took a deep breath. “Can you tell me where I am?”

The Muggle said something unintelligible.

Draco frowned. “I’m sorry?”

The man scowled and said something else that Draco didn’t understand, waving one hand. Expecting to hear Welsh, or Gaelic, or a thick Scottish accent, he was unprepared for a short string of words that was none of these. Draco tried again. “Can you tell me where I am?” The man just looked at him. He raised his voice, beginning to feel irritated. “ _Where…am…I_?”

“Konigssee,” said the man.

“What?” If that was an answer, Draco had never heard of it.

The Muggle pointed at the lake. “Konigssee.” Then he pointed at Draco. “You go. Where?”

English, at last. But garbled and nearly unintelligible still. Draco got a sinking feeling in his stomach. He tried desperately to place the man’s accent, but the Muggle spoke so shortly that it was difficult. And he didn’t know how to answer—where _did_ he want to go? “London,” he said at last, uncertainly.

The man grunted. “Train?”

“I suppose so.” The man looked at him blankly. Draco tried again. “Yes.”

He turned and pointed in the direction of the building. Drago thought he saw another road, a larger one, for Muggle cars, leading away from it. “Berchtesgaden. Train.”

“How far?” Draco asked. The Muggle just looked at him again. Inspiration striking, Draco opened his bag and took out the book of maps, holding it towards him. The Muggle let out an irritated sigh, but took the book and flipped through it, holding up his light to illuminate the pages. The device looked similar to an extremely thick wand. Draco squinted in the direction of the building, trying to make out what it was, until the Muggle started speaking, again in his native language. Draco looked at where his finger was pointing on the page. The Muggle was indicating a small area, but Draco blanched when he saw in which country the Muggle was pointing and, at the same time, realized what language the Muggle was speaking.

“I’m in _Germany_?”

Not just in Germany, but the deep south of Germany, nearly in Austria. He had no idea that it was possible to Apparate so far. At least, had no idea it was possible for Wizards…elves, on the other hand…

The Muggle was now looking at him suspiciously, pushing the map back towards him. He rattled off some more words in German, then put his hands in his jacket pockets and continued on his way down the path.

Draco stood there, feeling dizzy, with the book in his hands.

_Germany._

_Bloody hell. I’m in Germany._

*

Harry locked the door behind him as Luna entered the main room, looking around her with curiosity as Pigwidgeon began to make a racket in his cage. “This is a very nice apartment, Harry.” Harry wondered what Luna’s definition of “nice” must be, since at the moment it was extremely cluttered. Hermione hadn’t visited in a while.

“Thanks. Be right back.” He went down the hall and knocked loudly on the door. Receiving no reply, he pushed it open anyway, lighting up his wand. “Ron. _Ron._ Wake up!” He shook his friend’s arm.

Ron mumbled, stirred, settled back in, then one eye cracked open and he started up with a yelp. “Bloody hell, Harry, don’t _do_ that.” He squinted in the light. “Wha—why’re you back already? What time is it?”

“Midnight. Get up.”

“What for?” Ron mumbled. “Just ‘cause you got off early—”

“I didn’t get off, Ron. Malfoy’s disappeared.”

Ron rubbed his eyes. “Malfoy? Wait, which one?”

“All of them.” He went to the door. “Get dressed, Luna’s here.”

“Bloody hell,” said Ron, but he got out of bed and pulled a shirt over his head.

“Harry,” Luna said as soon as he reappeared, “I’ve just thought—we need to make sure Nippy is treated well. They’ll be frightfully angry with her, but none of this is her fault—”

“She’ll be fine,” Harry said, lighting the lamps in the room. “Savage won’t mistreat her. Why d’you suppose she’d get Malfoy out of there like that?”

Luna was twisting her hands and looking extremely distressed. She had grease marks on her face and her clothes were stained. She looked in need of a shower. “I don’t know,” she said, in a calm voice that was completely contrary to her physical appearance. “I suppose she wanted to protect him, but—oh, Harry, who is she protecting him _from_? What if they find him?”

Harry, while quite used by now to comforting a distraught Ginny, had no idea how to do it for a distraught girl who was both very unlike Ginny in personality and also not his girlfriend. He settled for patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Sit down, I’ll make you some tea, and then Ron and I’ll explain what we can.”

Ron emerged from his bedroom, rubbing his eyes. “Hi, Luna. What’s going on and what’s this about the Malfoys disappearing?”

Harry hurriedly filled him in and Luna broke in at the end, “Ron, won’t you write to Hermione and ask her to make sure Nippy isn’t hurt?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Ron. “She’d want to be filled in anyways—c’mere, Pig.” He strolled over to his owl’s cage, who was still hooting excitedly. “Make yourself useful.”

Harry handed Luna some tea and took a large swallow himself, burning his tongue.

“So what’s been happening, Harry?” Luna asked anxiously.

“You know all about the breakouts and disappearances,” said Harry. “As does everyone. But what most people don’t know is that we don’t have any idea how they got out or where they’ve gone. There’ve been tons of theories, of course—lots of speculation, lots of chasing rabbit trails, lots of blaming rogue Dementors. But at this point we don’t think it’s any of those. Or, some of us do, but Savage reckons we have a mole in the Ministry.”

Luna had not touched her tea. She merely held it in her hands and stared at Harry. “Savage thinks there’s a traitor?”

“We think so,” said Harry. “Ron and I think he thinks so, anyway. The way he’s been acting. Questioning people. He even fired someone last week, though honestly that might’ve just been because he was a git…loads of people were happy to see him go…can’t imagine him being in cahoots with Death Eaters…”

“And especially now,” put in Ron, as he carried Pig to the window and let him out into the night. “Now that the Malfoys have disappeared too…”

“Why?” asked Luna. “What’s special about the Malfoys?”

“Nothing,” said Harry. “Except that they were under the Ministry’s protection. In order to Disapparate them out, someone had to know how to disable the anti-Disapparition charms, and then re-enable them. It’s a frightfully complicated process, having to do with some secret hidden items and incantations. Only a few people know how to disable them, even fewer even know where all the components are. Ron and I certainly don’t. So either one of the few let the information slip, or else one of them is the traitor, or else someone managed to steal those secrets.”

“Either way, it means we’re in trouble.” Ron shoved the window closed. “It’s hard though. I can’t imagine anyone we work with being Death Eaters. Aurors can be a pretty unpleasant lot, sure, but the vetting process is so severe—the idea—”

“I see,” said Luna slowly. She turned the tea in her hands and fixed Harry with her unnervingly wide-eyed steady gaze. She seemed calmer now. “How do you know the Ministry isn’t lying? Why do you trust it to be telling the truth about the Malfoys?”

“You’re beginning to sound like Malfoy himself, Luna,” said Ron.

“I don’t trust the Ministry, excepting Kingsley,” said Harry, honestly. “I trust Savage.”

“He’s a creepy bloke,” said Ron, sitting down cross-legged on the floor. “But he’s a bloody good Auror—best since Mad-Eye Moody, I reckon. And you know Mad-Eye wouldn’t ever have allowed something to happen to the Malfoys and then lied about it.”

“No,” Luna admitted.

“So Savage hasn’t either.”

“All right then,” she said. “What do we do?”

She was interrupted by a popping sound from the fireplace and an alarmed voice calling out, “Ron! Harry!”

Harry quickly stood up and moved to the fireplace, kneeling down in front of the flames where Hermione’s head was now clearly visible, her hair dancing wildly with the flames. “You got Ron’s message then?”

“Yes, I did! Where’s Luna?”

“I’m right here, Hermione,” Luna called from her seat.

“All right. Good. I’m about to head to the Ministry and I’ll do my best to see Savage. I don’t think they’ll hurt Nippy, but if they do I’ll make them regret it. What’s the plan? Do we have a plan?”

At that moment, an owl hit against the window. Ron got up to get it.

“Not yet,” Harry said. “We’ve just been filling Luna in. She says Malfoy’s telling the truth, so we can probably assume Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy didn’t disappear voluntarily.”

“Probably,” Hermione said, nodding. “But not _impossibly_. So we’ll have to look into that.”

“Luna,” said Ron, holding out a letter. “It’s for you. From Kent?” Still nursing her tea, Luna quickly got up and took the letter from him. He rejoined Harry at the fireplace.

“What’s Savage doing?” Hermione asked.

“Aurors have spread out in the greater London area to look for Malfoy, but I think we can rule that out,” said Harry. “He said he’ll call on me later.”

“Perhaps we should wait for that,” said Hermione. “In the meantime—”

She was interrupted by a crash. Ron and Harry whirled. Luna stood by the open window with the letter held limply in one hand, her teacup in pieces by her feet, and her face extremely pale. Harry rushed to her. “What’s wrong?”

“Daddy,” she whispered, staring into space, and tears started down her face.

*

It took a few more hours and several more scrambled, confused conversations with the locals before Draco managed to find the train station. Like the town it resided in, it was small and ramshackle and Draco was suspicious that whatever train ran on the tracks would rattle itself into pieces. But he had no other choice, other than trying to walk back to England. He wished he knew how far it was possible to Apparate; he wished he knew what was going on; he wished he had access to the _Daily Prophet_ ; he was so _tired…_

There was only one bench in the station, and it was occupied by a large Muggle who looked as though he hadn’t ever showered in his life, bundled up in what looked like an old curtain. He was stretched out on the bench as though he owned it, plastic bags filled with rubbish shoved underneath it. Exhausted and dreading another attempt at communicating with someone who didn’t speak English, Draco dragged himself over to the ticket counter and rapped on the glass.

The person inside looked up; he was a youngish man with unkempt hair and he held a ridiculously large mug of coffee in one hand and a brightly colored magazine in the other. “Guten morgen.”

Draco was far beyond the point of trying to be polite. “I don’t speak German, and I need to get to London.”

The Muggle tilted his head at him. “You need…to go…London?” he asked, thankfully in understandable English.

“Yes.” Draco fingered the money he had transferred to his pocket after examining all of the varying currencies and selecting the one he thought looked the most German. “What trains are there?”

“Only one,” said the Muggle carelessly. “Later.”

Draco’s heart sank. His temples throbbed painfully and the area behind his eyes ached. “When does it leave?”

The Muggle silently counted on his fingers, mouthing English from one to four. “Four,” he announced. “Afternoon. Later.”

The colors of his magazine swirled. “Damn it,” Draco whispered, his head sinking to his hand. He rubbed his forehead, ran his fingers through his hair. It felt grimy. He _ached_. “Is that the _only_ one?” He looked back up and, to his surprise, the Muggle’s expression softened a little bit.

“Yes, only one,” said the Muggle. “Four. Wait.” He set down his mug and magazine and dug into one of the drawers on his desk, coming up with a small flyer map. He unfolded it and Draco saw it was more detailed than his own, relating specifically to railways. He got out a pen and looked back up at Draco. “London? You want to get there soon, yes?”

Draco nodded. The Muggle scooted back on his chair, leaning over to pull a thick ledger from the shelf behind his head. He set it on the desk and opened it to reveal pages and pages of tables. He ran his finger down multiple columns, flipping back and forth between pages, lips moving silently. Then he set the map on top of the book and began to draw on it with the pen. Finished, he stood up and slid the opened map across the counter. “See?” he pointed. “We are here. Berchtesgaden. It go to Ubersee, back and forth, every day. But you stop here, Siegsdorf. Buy ticket to Munchin. Then, fast train from Munchin to Stuttgart. Can catch night train if Siegsdorf is not behind. Stuttgart has many trains. You go to Paris or Brussels, either one. Big cities. Get to London from there, fast. Three, four days.”

The Muggle pushed the map into his hands. Draco stared at it. He had circled the appropriate stations, connecting them like a connect-the-dots game. He’d even written down time estimates. He couldn’t process, overwhelmed by the unexpected kindness. From a Muggle, no less.

“You want ticket?” the Muggle was asking.

“Oh. Um. Yes.” Draco fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a handful of bills, pushing it across the counter. The Muggle frowned when he saw the money, but he took it. Draco rubbed his eyes again. The idea of being on the run for three or four days before he’d be able to even begin to think about finding his parents made him dizzy.

“You have passport?” the Muggle asked, handing him his ticket, and a great deal of change. He must have handed him a large excess.

“What?”

“Passport. You have a passport? For UK border.”

Draco almost asked what a passport was, but he was alerted by the sudden suspicion on the Muggle’s face. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

“May I see, please?” the Muggle asked, suddenly much more formal and polite.

Draco scooped the money back into his bag. “Er…” He glanced over his shoulder. The station was empty, other than the Muggle slumbering on the bench. “Yeah. Of course you can. _Confundo._ ”

The Muggle blinked, his eyes momentarily unfocused. Then he waved a hand, picking his magazine back up. “Of course, of course,” he repeated distantly. “Passport, of course. Guten morgen.”

Feeling a sudden wave of guilt, Draco hurriedly pocketed his ticket, along with his wand, and retreated to a far corner of the station. Not willing to confront the Muggle, and feeling immensely sorry for himself, he instead sat on the floor, leaning against the dank wall with his knees pulled up to his chest, his bag resting under the tent of his knees. He wrapped his arms around his legs, rested his forehead against his knees, and dropped off to sleep from sheer exhaustion.

Severe hunger pangs were what woke him up. He raised his head. The movement sent a wave of nausea and dizziness through his entire body. Every part of him was even sorer from sitting on the ground. The dirty Muggle was no longer on the bench, but it was now occupied with three older German men, smoking and talking in harsh tones. He blearily rubbed his eyes. A clock with a cracked face on the wall showed it was nearing noon. As much as he didn’t want to talk to any more German-speaking Muggles, it looked as though he would have to, if only to find out where to get food…

As he sat contemplating how to best approach the problem, one of the Muggles got to his feet and shuffled over to a large, man-sized box that rested against the wall. Its front side was completely made of glass, and inside were clearly-visible brightly colored packages. Draco, though he did not recognize the specific packaging, recognized it for what it was—snacks. Muggle snacks. He watched as the Muggle produced money, dropped it into a slot in the box, and pushed several buttons. One of the internal packages dropped from its hook in the machine. The Muggle leaned down and scooped it out of a little drawer on the bottom, then returned to his seat. Draco watched his in disgruntled amazement. Of all the—really—why would anyone—

His stomach sent another sharp pain through his middle. Draco unsteadily got to his feet, put his bag over his shoulder again, and all but hobbled over to the box. He eyed it for a moment, noticed the system of numbers, and copied what the Muggle had done. It took him several tries, but eventually the machine acquiesced to his wishes and spat out several packages and one bottle of water. He took his prizes back to his place by the wall—noting that the Muggles were watching him with narrowed eyes—and consumed every last bit of it, eating as slowly as possible. When he was finished he dozed off again, waking this time to someone shouting at him in German. He started to his feet when he realized the time—four o’clock—and rushed out to the train.

*

The same night of the Malfoys’ disappearance, Hermione Apparated to an alley near Whitehall. It was beginning to rain as she hurried towards the nearest telephone booth and nearing twelve-thirty in the morning. Her conversation with Harry had ended abruptly due to Luna’s receipt of what had evidently been some bad news. However, she had heard Luna’s concern for the house-elf of the Malfoys’—Nippy—and decided to investigate while the boys were still trying to sort out what to do. She stepped out into the quiet, echoing chamber of an empty ministry. She showed her tag to the single security guard at the main desk as she headed to the lifts. He lazily waved her through, commenting, “Suppose you’re here about the house-elf. He’s a bit stressed, Granger. Don’t expect a welcome.”

“Thanks, Hugh. Did he go to level two?”

Hugh shrugged, putting his feet on the desk as he shook out a copy of the _Daily Prophet._ “Probably.”

She pinned her nametag to her jacket as she stepped onto the lift and pushed the button for level two – Department of Magical Law Enforcement. One jerky ride later, she stepped out of the lift and nearly ran into Frances Berkely as he moved to get on. He groaned, looking rather wind-swept and frazzled. “Really, Granger, don’t you _ever_ sleep?”

“Not much. Is Savage in his office?”

Berkely stepped onto the lift and jerked his thumb, pointing down the hall. “Holding room five. You won’t be allowed in, though. This isn’t the best time. We’re in the middle of an emergency.”

“I’m aware.” Hermione made her way to the Holding Rooms corner. The Holding Rooms were less friendly than a conference room, but more friendly than a cell. A sort of in-between place when it was being debated whether someone had to go to Azkaban or not – or if someone was being interrogated. Neither option could be good, especially if the person in question was a house-elf, who already had far fewer legal rights than any human. She stopped at the door marked with a large, red five. A large, dark-tinted window was set in the wall beside the door, too murky to see through. She knocked.

A moment later, a Medi-Witch opened the door. Older, with fuzzy brown hair sticking out from under her cap. “Yes?”

“Oh, excuse me.” Hermione wondered whether Berkely had given her the wrong room. “I’m looking for a house-elf named Nippy. Do you know—”

A voice came from inside; thin, crisp, firm, and emotionless. “Not now, Miss Granger.”

Hermione tilted her head, trying to see into the room but the Medi-Witch effectively blocked her view. “I would like to speak with Nippy, Mr. Savage.”

Savage appeared behind the Medi-Witch; he loomed a good head above her. He tapped her shoulder and the Medi-Witch left the doorway. Savage took her place. His gaze was clear and calm, but Hermione could see the worry lines at his eyes were more deeply creased than was usual. He looked at her for a moment. “Potter told you.”  It wasn’t a question. His tone betrayed neither approval nor disapproval.

“Is Nippy here?”

Savage continued to stare at her. He had a way of looking at someone without blinking and without glancing away, which was very unnerving. It was similar to Luna, actually, now that she thought about it. But his gaze was significantly more alarming. “Yes. You may speak with her when we’re finished.”

Hermione looked directly back at him, blinking as little as possible. “You understand I am concerned about Nippy’s rights, Mr. Savage.” Savage was under no obligation to do anything that Hermione asked; though getting to be well-known as a nuisance to most at the Ministry, Hermione had no official position or right to be here and Savage could call Hugh to come escort her away if he wished. He was well within his rights to even arrest her for interfering in top-secret Ministry business if he deemed it necessary.

“Very well.” Savage leaned out of the doorway and tapped the tinted window with his wand. The mottled browns and blacks dissolved into a clear window of light. “You may observe. Wait here, and you may see her when I am finished.”

“Thank—” Hermione began, but had already closed the door firmly in her face. She moved to stand in front of the window. The house-elf named Nippy was sitting on a tall, cushioned chair, facing the window on one side of a table. Her head was tilted slightly forward while the Medi-Witch worked on something behind it, but her large eyes were watching Savage as he sat down on the opposite side of the table, hands steepled in front of him with his elbows resting on the table. Hermione couldn’t hear anything, but she carefully watched Nippy’s body language. The house-elf looked nervous, but not frightened, though her ears twitched incessantly while the Medi-Witch worked on the back of her head, and her shoulders were rolled forward as she clenched her hands together in her lap. Hermione couldn’t help but note the stark difference between what she wore and what, according to Harry, Dobby used to wear. In fact, compared to the house-elves that worked at Hogwarts (who were not at all treated poorly, when all was said and done), Nippy was practically dressed like royalty. She had a glass of water and a closed shoebox-sized container in front of her. She didn’t seem perturbed by anything Savage was saying or asking, and there were no outbursts of emotion when she answered him. That was good; house-elves were almost always extremely emotional creatures. If Nippy looked calm, then Savage almost certainly wasn’t being harsh with her. The fact that he had allowed Hermione to watch at all was also a good sign.

Fifteen minutes into the questioning, the Medi-Witch finished what she was doing with a bandage wrapped around Nippy’s head like a headband and left the room, with a polite nod and “goodnight” to Hermione. Thirty more minutes passed before Savage stood, said one more thing to Nippy, and exited.

“You may see her now, Miss Granger. Note that everything you say is being recorded and may be reviewed by one of my staff.” With that, Savage walked briskly down to his office, which was just around the corner. Hermione heard him shut the door. Then she knocked on the holding room door and cracked it open.

“Nippy?” She poked her head into the room. The house-elf was still sitting in the chair, but she’d opened the shoebox and was munching on what looked like an apple slice. Nippy glanced up at her voice, eyes wide. “My name is Hermione Granger. May I come in?”

Depending on the situation, house-elves could react strongly to being asked permission for anything, but Nippy merely looked a little confused. “Of course Miss may come in,” she said. “This is not Nippy’s room, Miss. Miss must ask Head Auror Maguire Savage if she may come in.”

“Right.” Hermione stepped in and shut the door behind her. “I just didn’t want to invade your privacy.”

Nippy tilted her head. “Why would house-elves need privacy, Miss?”

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t want privacy,” Hermione amended.

“Oh.” Nippy took another bite of her apple. The box looked like it also contained a thin blanket, a comb, and a toothbrush. Some necessities provided by the Ministry. Well, that was an improvement, at least.

Hermione sat down next to her. “May I ask you some questions?”

“Miss may ask Nippy questions, but Nippy may answer freely,” said Nippy. “Master said she may.”

Hermione didn’t know what to make of this. “I’m only here to make sure they treat you well, and that you understand your rights.”

“Oh, yes, I know Hermione Granger,” said Nippy. “Granger is the smart friend of Harry Potter, and thinks that house-elves should be paid.” She eyed Hermione with disapproval.

“I—what?” Hermione was used to house-elves recognizing her name in connection with Harry Potter, if not in connection to her work for house-elf rights. But she wasn’t used to the quantifier of “the smart one.”

“Master told me,” Nippy explained, licking her fingers as she finished the apple slice.

“You work for Draco Malfoy, don’t you?”

“Yes, Miss.” Nippy reached into the box and took out a cracker.

Well. Draco Malfoy referred to her as the smart Harry Potter friend. That was an immense improvement over Mudblood. “Are you hurt?” Hermione gestured to the bandage.

“Oh, yes, Miss. Bad Wizards hurt Nippy when they took…” Nippy trailed off, and she stared down at her cracker, her eyes becoming bright and shiny.

“Bad Wizards?” Hermione repeated. “From the Ministry?”

Nippy placed the untouched cracker on the table, folded her hands, and looked up at Hermione. A single tear rolled down her face and she sniffed. “Oh, no, Miss. At least, Nippy doesn’t know. Nippy didn’t see them.”

“What did Mr. Savage ask you?”

“Mr. Head Auror wanted to know why Nippy sent Master Malfoy away.”

Hermione placed her arms on the table. Nippy didn’t appear to have been mistreated in any way. And if she could tell her about what was happening... “Why did you?”

“Mistress Malfoy told Nippy to. Mistress Malfoy told Nippy that if Bad Wizards ever came for Mistress and Nippy’s other Master Malfoy, Nippy was to give Master Malfoy the black bag and Apparate him far away. Mistress Malfoy said that Nippy must tell Master Malfoy that Mistress Malfoy missed the sunrise when Nippy did so, Miss.”

“I…see.” Hermione stared at the house-elf. “When did she tell you this?”

“Oh, many weeks ago, Miss.” The house-elf stared down at her hands. “Mistress Malfoy knew that Bad Wizards were coming.”

Hermione leaned forward unconsciously. “How?”

“Nippy didn’t ask. But Master Malfoy knew too. All my masters knew. Nippy knew.” Her voice grew louder. “Bad Wizards hate Nippy’s masters. Nippy couldn’t stop them, but Nippy protects Master Malfoy—Bad Wizards shall _not get_ Master Malfoy!” She shouted this last bit, suddenly glaring around her wildly, both of her tiny hands clenched into fists.

“Nippy,” said Hermione in her most soothing voice. She waited until Nippy had calmed down somewhat and looked at her again. “Can you tell me what you like so much about Draco?”

“Master Malfoy is a wonderful Wizard!” Nippy said immediately, looking at Hermione with an astonished expression, as if shocked that Hermione didn’t already know this. “Master Malfoy is a very great Wizard, Miss. Master Malfoy loves his family very much, Miss. Master Malfoy is very kind to Nippy. He gives Nippy an entire Galleon, Miss, and tells Nippy to buy the best of tea-towels, Miss.” Nippy clutched at the cluster of flowers embroidered on her tea-towel. “Master Malfoy tells Nippy how to best serve the great Wizarding family, Miss, and makes Nippy into a better servant. Nippy is very grateful to Master Malfoy!”

Nippy looked like she would have carried on in this vein for some time; Hermione interrupted her. “Is the Ministry holding you here against your will?”

Nippy blinked rapidly at her for a moment. “No, Miss. Master Malfoy tells Nippy to go with Ministry Wizards, and so Nippy goes.”

“But they aren’t holding you here?”

“Mr. Head Auror asked Nippy if Nippy would stay, and Nippy said that Nippy would.”

Hermione glanced around the room; she could see no safeguards, not even a lock on the door. “They aren’t guarding you?”

Nippy frowned. “Why would Nippy lie, Miss? Nippy can leave anytime Nippy wants. Enchantments here can’t hold house-elves. Nippy can go back to Master Malfoy’s manor whenever Nippy must.” Nippy quieted for a moment, seeming to think. “Nippy will have to go back,” she said slowly. “Nippy must care for the manor—Master Malfoy is far away—Master Malfoy must not come back—” She stiffened, and then suddenly let out a wail of anguish and flung herself forward, her arms wrapping around her head on the table as she heaved in great, gulping sobs. Hermione could see clearly the bandage on her head and the blood stains on the back of her tea-towel.

“Nippy, what’s wrong?” she asked, patting the house-elf’s shoulder.

“Master—Malfoy—must—never—come—back!” Nippy wailed. “Nippy—will—not—be—able—to—find—him—and—Mistress—and—other—Master—Malfoy—will—be—gone—forever! Forever! Forever!” She broke off into more gut-wrenching sobs. Hermione had never heard a house-elf sound more forlorn and heartbroken. “Nippy—has—l-l-lost—her—Wizarding—family!” she choked out. “Gone—gone—gone—gone—gone—”

“Nippy, we might be able to find Draco—”

“No!” Nippy screamed, sitting bolt upright again, her large eyes reddened and infuriated. “No! Never! No-one shall _ever_ find Master Malfoy! Nippy has sent him far away! Nippy will never tell where! _Never!_ He will escape! He will not be hurt! _Never!_ Nippy will _die_ before Master Malfoy is found! _Die!_ ” she turned on Hermione in a wide-eyed rage. “ _Never!_ ”

Alarmed, Hermione withdrew her hand. “That’s not what I meant, Nippy.”

But Nippy had broken down in tears again, again laying out her arms and head on the table, crying like her heart would break. This wasn’t distress, like Dobby; this wasn’t guilt and shame, like Winky; this was grief, pure and simple. Hermione wordlessly took out a handkerchief and offered it to the house-elf. Nippy took it and blew her nose.

“Thank you, Miss,” she said shakily after several minutes. “Nippy did not mean to shout at Miss.” She gave Hermione a sharp look. “But Nippy _shall not tell._ Begging your pardon, Miss.”

“That’s all right,” said Hermione. Then she started over. “If I can, Nippy, Harry, Ron, Luna and I and Mr. Savage are going to find the Bad Wizards and stop them.”

Nippy stared at Hermione. “Stop them?” she whispered. Hermione nodded. Nippy twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “Nippy would be very grateful, Miss,” she said at last. “If Miss stopped the Bad Wizards. But how does Miss plan to start?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione. “Do you know anything that would help?”

Nippy’s chin sank as she stared hard at the table, seeming to think it over. “No,” she said at last, looking back up. “But Master Malfoy doesn’t trust the Ministry, Miss. Nippy does not trust the Ministry Wizards.”

“That’s all right. I don’t work for the Ministry.”

“Miss is not a Minsitry Witch?”

“No.”

Nippy nodded slowly. “Nippy will help Miss if she can,” she said at last. “Not to find Master Malfoy. Master Malfoy must run forever. But Nippy will help Miss stop the Bad Wizards if Nippy can.”

“All right.” Hermione stood, giving the house-elf another pat on the shoulder. “I’ll come back to visit later. If anybody treats you poorly, you tell them you’re friends with Hermione Granger, all right?” Nippy nodded, holding out the handkerchief. “You can keep it, I’ve got plenty.”

She left the Holding Room and stopped by Savage’s office. The door was now cracked open and she could see his silver-striped hair bent over a piece of parchment, writing furiously with the fingertips of his free hand pressed against his forehead, his elbow on the desk. She lifted a hand to knock, but Savage said without looking up, “Tell Potter and Weasley I expect them first thing in the morning if you please, Miss Granger. I presume you are on your way to see them now.”

Hermione let her hand fall. “Yes, Mr. Savage. Thank you for your help.”

Savage dipped his quill in his inkwell and continued in his passionless voice, “For someone who has spent the past year advocating for elves’ rights, Miss Granger, you seem shockingly unskilled at interacting with them without severely upsetting them.”

“I’m learning,” said Hermione, irritated. Partially because he didn’t have any right to criticize her skills with house-elves when she was one of the few people that treated them like real people, but mostly because he was right and obviously was much better in that area than she was. “And I don’t think I’ve done half-bad interacting with her, considering she now sees me as an ally, but you as an enemy.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized how rude they would sound.

The corner of Savage’s mouth tugged slightly and he said, still in his matter-of-fact tone of voice, “Touché, Miss Granger.”

“Well,” she said, after a moment of awkward silence, “Goodnight.”

Savage didn’t answer or look up, but Hermione left with the distinct impression that he rather liked her.

*

Time became a haze. Worry became the norm—gut-gnawing, nausea-inducing, sleep-depriving worry and paranoia. His appearance was rapidly becoming more haggard—circles under his eyes darkening, stubble spreading across his face. He took time in various restrooms to make himself presentable, but despite his best efforts he continued to look increasingly ragged, mostly due to the lack of sleep. Not only was he constantly on the alert for Aurors, but he didn’t have any of his Dementor potion on him and the sleeping potions only took the edge off of his waking nightmarish haze. He started awake soon after dropping off to sleep, as his dreams were now haunted by visions of his parents’ torture and death while he tried to race across a vast emptiness, with Death Eater masks floating through the air beside him, with hands coming out to grab him, with his Father walking joyously out to meet his old friends, only for his laughter to turn into a death rattle. Narcissa was present in these dreams only by her utter absence. And even as Draco tried and failed repeatedly to save Lucius, it was constantly with the horrible feeling in his gut that he must find his mother…he must…he must…before it was too late…and he heard her soft voice whispering in his ear, full of love and sorrow and resignation.

_It’s already too late…the last and most desperate wish of my life…live…._

He couldn’t seem to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time, and every time he woke it was with a jump and a gasp, which invariably caused the Muggles around him to glance at each other and, as casually as they could, move away. It was probably for the best. The more ragged he looked, the less the Muggles wanted to interact with him, which was what he wanted anyway.

His arm itched and burned incessantly, prompting and mocking.

As he sat on his fifth train on the—second day? Third? The days and nights were blurring together—his bag hugged close to his chest, Draco leaned back in his seat and watched the shuffling of patrons in the car with apprehension. He was in Belgium, nearing the border of France at last, and in a city—he couldn’t remember which. He didn’t see anyone that looked like a Witch or Wizard, but then again, you couldn’t always tell—he’d fled from someone wearing a robe earlier (or was it yesterday?), had knocked into a newsstand in his panic and sent papers and postcards flying everywhere—but it hadn’t even been a Wizard, just a Muggle in a long cloak-like coat, and the Muggle at the newsstand had started shouting at him, waving his hands, and saying something about the police, and he’d had to Confound and Obliviate the twenty or so bystanders just to escape without any further notice.

He was so tired. He hardly dared to even try to sleep as he got closer to England. And he still couldn’t get news about the Wizarding world. He watched snatches of Muggle news on televisions when he passed them, and picked up Muggle newspapers when he found them in English, but didn’t see anything of interest, which was a small comfort. At least he wasn’t on the level of Sirius Black…at least not yet…

But at the same time it was a torture, not knowing what was happening. And he still didn’t know what he was going to do when he got back. He ran over lists of people in his mind constantly. Who could he go to…who would help…and he didn’t like any of his options.

The train started moving again. A Muggle girl, of about ten or eleven years old, plopped herself down in the seat across from him. Draco adjusted his grip on his bag and looked out the window. The girl said something cheerful in Dutch. Draco ignored her. So she leaned forward, waving her hand in his face, as if checking to see if he was blind. He reluctantly looked at her.

“I don’t understand you.”

“Oh, hello,” said the girl. “Are you English or American?”

“English.”

“Oh, good!” said the girl happily. “I have been trying to practice my English, but nobody I know speaks it like a real English or American.”

“Uh-huh.” Draco looked back out the window.

“Are you hungry?”

“What?”

The girl had taken out half a loaf of bread and a lump of cheese wrapped in paper from her bag. “That is what I asked earlier, in Dutch. Are you hungry? You look hungry. Mama says we should always share what we have with the homeless. Are you homeless?”

He was having a hard time thinking straight. “Did your mama ever tell you not to talk with strangers?” he asked grumpily, and then his stomach growled. Had he eaten today?

“Oh, yes, sometimes, but we are on a train and my brother is waiting at the next station, so you can’t kidnap me,” said the girl. “My name is Alida, what is yours?”

Draco stared at her. He couldn’t give her his real name, obviously—he should just give her a fake one—or just tell her to mind her own business—or—he couldn’t decide. She was looking at him expectantly, eyes wide and smiling. Her hair was blonde and curly and tied to one side in a thick braid. “Lucius,” he said at last.

“Are you hungry, Mr. Lucius?” She tore off a piece of the bread, broke off a piece of cheese, and held it out to him.

“…yeah,” he admitted, at last, taking it from her.

“How is my English?” she asked him, tearing off a piece of bread and cheese for herself.

“Good. Better than most I’ve heard. All, maybe.” He took a bite of the bread. His mouth was very dry, but he choked it down. Had he not been so tired, it probably would have tasted good.

“You can tell me if it is terrible,” said Alida, her mouth full. “I will not mind.”

“It’s very good.”

“Really?” she grinned.

Draco looked away. He rested his head against the window; it was cool and soothing against his hot, dry skin. “Really.”

“Are you tired, Mr. Lucius?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I will stop talking to you then.” Alida hummed to herself, eating her bread and cheese. Draco closed his eyes. The train rattled his seat.

 _One more,_ he thought. _One more ride, and I’ll be back in England. Just one more train. One more. One…_

He went over the list again.

He wouldn’t go to Luna. She was the obvious choice, but he refused to do it. She’d already forgiven him for too much; he wasn’t going to incriminate her for harboring a fugitive. Any of her friends were out of the question; Ginny and Neville and the Golden Trio and the rest would turn him in without a second thought. Malfoys trusted blood and family above all else. But both his sets of grandparents were dead; his father had been an only child; Aunt Bellatrix was dead; Severus was dead; all other old allies hated him and beyond turning him in might actually kill him instead. He thought briefly about Pansy, and then dismissed her. She might not turn him in, but she wouldn’t help him…

“I get off here,” said Alida. Draco opened his eyes; he thought he might have dozed off. The Muggle girl stood up as the train shuddered to a stop, giving him a big smile. “Thank you for helping me with my English, Mr. Englishman.” She skipped off down the train aisle. Draco’s gaze fell on her seat. She had left her leftover bread and cheese there. His second unexpected kindness from a Muggle. He picked it up, wrapping the leftovers tight in paper, and stowing them away in his bag, leaning his pounding head back on the seat.

He knew of one other person. One other possibility. One who he knew next to nothing about. One he had never seen, not even in old photographs, because they had all been destroyed long before he was born. One he had not even thought about contacting since before the War, one that it would have been a shame to even discuss, much less actually consider visiting—

Blood. It was a wretched choice. But it was the only one he had.

*

Draco forced himself to eat the rest of the bread and cheese in the last train station before crossing the border. His headache lessened slightly, but it had been a constant companion ever since the first night when he’d walked through German mountains searching for civilization, and one he doubted would leave him until he’d had a week’s worth of recovery from this grueling, breakneck travel. He Confunded two sets of border guards, and then—at last—after approximately three days of travel via Muggle trains, from the most desolate places of Germany to the furthermost borders of Belgium to briefly crossing into France—he re-entered Great Britain. He could have taken a train into London itself, but that would have doubtlessly landed him in more trouble than he could manage. So instead he sought out a Muggle bus, and rode it to Croyden. There, he ducked into a restroom and spent the next hour painstakingly using small bits of transfiguration to change his appearance. This was not his specialty, and he feared accidently giving himself some sort of animalistic or distinguishing feature. So he ended up darkening his hair and eye color, thickening the beard that had already started, and slightly changing the shape of his nose. Surveying himself, he thought he still looked uncomfortably like an exhausted fugitive named Draco Malfoy who had simply darkened his hair and eye color, but it was the best he could do.

It was nearly dusk. He went out and found a Muggle post office, inquiring about an address at the desk. When the Muggle insisted they simply couldn’t hand out the addresses of private individuals, Draco cast another Confundus charm and she became much more agreeable, writing down the name and address for him, and even directing him to the nearest bus station where he could catch a bus for Oxford if he made it in the next fifteen minutes.

 _Oxford,_ Draco thought with a sense of eerie familiarity. _So close. And never a word…_

He stepped out onto the bustling street. Muggles swarmed every which way, doing last-minute errands before returning home. Snatches of conversation whirled around him while he pushed his way down the walk.

“Have you heard from Bertie yet?”

“—heard about that competition, looks quite good—”

“—hey, you!”

“—watching the match tomorrow? My money’s on—” 

He stepped under an overhang and checked the street signs with the directions the post office clerk had given him, then continued on.

“You, stop!”

His heart jumped. As casually as he could, Draco glanced over his shoulder. A woman was walking purposefully towards him, quickly, almost at a trot, dressed in slacks and a blouse, her gaze fixed on him. Uncertain, Draco hesitated. Then he saw the wand clenched in her hand.

_Damn it!_

He broke into a run.

“Stop!”

His limbs ran cold with adrenaline as he raced through the thinning crowds, snarling out, “Move, move!” as Muggles dove out of his way. He had to stay near Muggles. Had to. As long as they were there, she wouldn’t dare—

A jet of blue light crashed into a parked car in front of him. Its alarms blared. A Muggle screamed. Draco skidded on the pavement as he changed direction, dodging around the car, his heart pounding in his throat and his lungs burning as he gasped for air.

“Stop that man!”

He ducked around another parked car, sprinting full out on the sidewalk. He glanced into a dark alley as he passed it, mind racing. Something struck his shins, hard. He sprawled onto the ground, instinctively casting a shield as he flipped over onto his back. The next _Stupefy_ was absorbed by his shield. Above him loomed a Muggle man. He’d been tripped. The disguised Auror was pelting towards him.

“Malfoy,” she shouted “I’m ordering you in the name of the law—don’t mo—”

He Apparated. It was horrifically illegal, of course, to do so in front of a Muggle. But right now he preferred breaking more laws to getting caught. And if the Auror, or Hit Wizard, or whoever she was deemed it necessary to use magic in front of a Muggle to catch him, than he damn well deemed it necessary to use magic to escape. He appeared in the alley he’d passed a few moments before and crouched down behind a rubbish bin, gasping with his hand on his chest, listening to the chaos out on the street. It mostly consisted of confused shouts, honking car horns, and comments about calling the police.

“I _am_ the police,” he heard his pursuer say. “He’s a fugitive.”

“Where’d he go, though?” a man’s voice demanded. “Disappeared right in front of me!”

“He ran away. You saw him. _Confundo._ ”

“Right, of course. Ran away. That’s right. That’s a fancy taser you’ve got there, Ma’am.”

“If you see him again – if any of you see him – do _not_ engage. He’s dangerous. Call the police immediately. Understand?”

Her voice drew closer. Draco curled into a ball against the wall, hardly daring to breathe as he pressed his body into the corner made by the rubbish bins and the wall. Her footsteps passed his hiding place. Even then he didn’t relax; he focused on undoing the transfiguration charms he’d placed on himself. They’d clearly not prevented the Witch from recognizing him, so he may as well look like himself and hope that the Muggles that had seen his transfigured self wouldn’t recognize the real him. He put on a new sweater by means of disguise, then combed through his hair with his fingers, waited a moment, and stepped confidently out into the street, eyes darting everywhere. The Witch was nowhere in sight. It was darker than before. Trusting the darkness to hide him, he put his head down and hurriedly resumed his trek down the street, feeling as though a glowing target was on his back and a ticking bomb was in his pack.

In a fortunate turn of events, his few minutes of sprinting had taken him in the correct direction of the bus station. And so, despite the time he’d spent hiding, he made it on time. He bought his ticket and moved to the back of the bus, pulling his jacket collar up around his jaw and slouching as far down as he could. He spent the ride trying to keep his cool.

He’d been spotted. The greater London area would be swarming with Aurors in minutes. He had no reliable means of disguise. Even some Muggles now knew to look out for him. He had to find a place to hide and lay low. If his current plan didn’t work…

He arrived in Oxford far too late to go knocking on anybody’s door, fugitive or not. He was taking a large enough risk of being turned away by showing up at all; he wasn’t going to add to that risk by turning up in the middle of the night. So he wandered the streets, avoiding the Muggle police (he had found out the hard way they didn’t take kindly to stragglers at night), until he found what he thought must be the correct dwelling. He retreated away from it, hiding in the shrubbery by a house across the street. Waiting for morning. Waiting…

He couldn’t let himself fall asleep. He pinched himself, rubbed his face, pressed his thumbs against his throbbing temples. Waiting…

The hours passed slowly. Then, finally, finally, the sky began to turn grey. Draco fixed his gaze on the windows of the house. Waiting…

Sunlight stretched across the sky in bands of orange and purple. A light went on in the upstairs window. Draco bit his knuckles, waited for a few more minutes. Someone came out onto the porch of the house beside him; he heard them yawning, stamping their feet on the wood. Heard the bang of the door as they went back inside.

_Long enough._

Draco stood and walked across the street, combing his hair with his fingers again. He looked at his reflection in the glass door of this house. He took a deep breath. Raised his hand—

_I can’t._

He felt suddenly panicked.

_I can’t!_

This was forbidden; forbidden for years, a tie cut long ago. Blood? Not hardly. Not anymore. He backed away, down the front walk, his heart in his throat, his headache worsening. He felt extremely thirsty.

He thought of his parents.

_I have to. She has to. She must. _

Before he could change his mind, he ran back up to the door and rang the bell. Then he waited with pounding heart, throbbing in his temples and all down his spine.

Movement. The door opened.

“Yes?”

He was struck dumb. An apparition stood before him, a bad copy of Bellatrix, an even worse copy of Narcissa—and yet his mother was there, in the shape of her mouth, even as Bellatrix was in the rest of her face, in her hair which was the entirely wrong color, with ears that stuck out a bit too much—

He was dizzy again. All plans for formal introductions, stiff hellos, demands, threats, everything else, dissolved as he swayed on his feet, suddenly faint. He heard himself saying, weakly, almost in a whisper, “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.”

The woman frowned. She was still wearing her robe. “I don’t—” she stopped abruptly. Her lips parted, her eyes widening. Her gaze flickered behind his shoulder and he flinched, glancing back, expecting to see a Hit Wizard striding towards them. There was nothing there. “It can’t…” He faced her again. She was staring at him with an expression he couldn’t interpret. “…Draco?”

He licked his dry lips with a dry tongue. “Hello, Aunt Andromeda.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been listening to "Run Boy Run" by Woodkid on repeat in writing this chapter, haha.
> 
> Also I freaking love to write Savage.


	19. Chapter 19

Andromeda stared at him, her mouth partly open. She drew back slightly, the gap in the door narrowing. “What…what are you doing here?”

He looked at the ground. Tried to speak up, still could only whisper. “Can I come in?” A door slammed behind him and he stiffened, fingers clenching around the strap of his bag. “Please?”

She moved out of the way and Draco stepped inside. He smelled pine needles. Andromeda went outside, glanced around, then came in, shut the door, and bolted it. She wordlessly walked away from him deeper into the house and he followed. They entered a small sitting room. It was…messy, to put it mildly. Not only was it overflowing with papers and a set of quills scribbling fiercely on a stack of some sort of greeting card, but children’s toys were strewn everywhere, a few loads of rumpled laundry covered one sofa, and a tea set that looked like it had been used yesterday was sitting on a table. Draco couldn’t find it in himself to care, and Andromeda seemed much too distracted to even notice the mess. “What’s going on?” she asked but Draco didn’t answer as just then a small child crawled out from behind a pink-patterned armchair. He stared, confused. That…wasn’t right…didn’t fit…

Andromeda moved swiftly to the child and scooped him up—at least, Draco thought he was a boy. He wasn’t sure. He stood staring and motionless, his dry throat clenching around itself. He suddenly felt trapped.

Andromeda turned to face him. The baby tugged at strands of her hair, drawing them out from the messy bun behind her hair so that they hung about her face and shoulders. He forced himself to look away. A clock ticked on the wall and the quills scribbled on their parchment, their sounds seeming to become louder and more jarring the longer the silence lasted. There was an old upright piano sitting against one wall. On its bench was a ragged copy of the _Daily Prophet_. Draco wouldn’t have noticed it, if it weren’t for the blaring headline:

**_Malfoy Escape_ **

He walked over to it, his shoes crunching over cracker crumbs hidden in the carpet, and picked it up. The paper was worn and several days old, and looked like it had been read multiple times. 

**_In the latest stage of Death Eater outbreaks, the entire Malfoy family mysteriously disappeared late Wednesday night. Known to be Death Eaters, it surprised many that the Ministry allowed them to remain in their home at Wiltshire. The decision was made last August of 1998 after they—_ **

“Draco.”

He skipped down.

**_It is widely feared that the Malfoys have rejoined their comrades and will attempt to rebuild an army for the third time. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, widely known as the hero who slew He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, advocated for the Malfoys during their trial. When asked about the wisdom of this decision after finally being found Thursday afternoon, he said (looking quite harried), “Look, don’t know that the Malfoys have done anything that—” but he was interrupted by Hermione Granger, advocate for elf rights and good friend of Potter, who made the following statement: “Honestly, Harry, haven’t you learned anything? No comment!”_ **

**_Maguire Savage, Head Auror at the Ministry of Magic, was unavailable for comment, but the Ministry did release a bulletin advising that everyone be cautious and on the alert. Anyone who sees any sign of the Malfoys, Bulstrode, Selwyn, Jugson, or Rowle are advised to not engage and make a report immediately at—_ **

_More of them._

“Draco.” Her voice was louder. The baby babbled something, and he felt an unsettling crawling sensation in his stomach. It made him dizzy. He forced himself to look up at her, letting the worn paper fall back onto the bench. “What in Merlin’s name is going on? Where’s Cissy?”

Draco inwardly cringed. He had only ever heard Bellatrix call his mother _Cissy._ But when this aunt he didn’t know said it, it sounded different—non-demanding, non-obligatory, tender, sad. Lucius never called his mother Cissy. It was Narcissa, most of the time, when they were with Draco, and all of the time in public. But occasionally in the privacy of their home, when he was especially relaxed, Lucius called his mother “love.” And every once in a blue moon, when his parents weren’t aware he could hear, Draco overheard Lucius calling her Cissa. But never Cissy.

The room was going fuzzy around the edges. Draco blinked hard.

“Draco Malfoy. Tell me what’s going on. This instant.” The room snapped back into focus as the baby began to cry, squirming to be set down. Draco looked at him, getting that funny swooping feeling in his stomach again, and Andromeda’s arms tightened. He swallowed, shifting his fingers’ position on his bag. He knew he should be saying something—explaining anything—but the words wouldn’t come. “ _Draco._ ”

“It wasn’t them,” he said numbly, hoarsely.

“What do you mean?” she shifted the baby to her other hip, and he played with the buttons on her collar. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know.” A flush of heat overwhelmed him, followed by cold and nausea. “More of them?”

“What?”

He pointed at the newspaper. “Rowle. Jugson. Selwyn.”

She nodded, her frown deepening. “The same night. What happened?”

The question burned inside of him. He was looking at the floor again. “Someone took them. Not the Ministry. Death Eaters, I think. Revenge. We’ve been waiting for something like this to happen.”

“But you,” Andromeda said. “Where have you been?”

He closed his eyes, fighting the dizziness. The words began to slip out, fast. “My house-elf Apparated me out. She was scared. Mother told her to. The Ministry…they’ve…I don’t know, they might have them, or they don’t know, but they cornered me, and they tried to take me too, but the house-elf got me out and I Apparated in Germany, surrounded by Muggles, a remote place, and I didn’t even know the language— there was a note in my bag about getting out—she knew, somehow, or suspected that I would need to—she told Nippy to—and she said to go to America or Canada or somewhere— _America.”_ An alien giggle fell from him, tearing his throat, alarmed at the absurdity. He dug into the bag while Andromeda stared at him without speaking. “And she gave—she gave—there was money, in here,  but not Galleons—I mean, there was some, but it was just— _Muggle_ money. _Muggle_.” He grabbed a fistful and brandished in her face. The baby reached out. He drew back quickly, trying not to look at him. “I don’t even know how to—I don’t know what this is worth. These—pounds, and—and ECUs and—” he was stuttering. Far from slipping out now, the words were becoming jammed and clogged as they fought with his thoughts. “—d-d-dollars, I know what they—they’ve got—but it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s been—days, I don’t know, and they’ve still gone, and there’s been no word, and I can’t—I won’t—” A horrible thought burst on him and he stopped. His hand fell loosely to his side, empty. The foreign money spilled across the carpet. “They’ll look for me here,” he said, head pounding worse than before. “They saw me. They’ll—I shouldn’t have come. They’ll know—” He started for the door, but Andromeda grabbed his arm.

“Wait.”

He pulled back and twisted free, but then he spun, knocked off balance by his own momentum. He staggered and caught himself. “I can’t stay. You—you’re—” His hand flapped vaguely at her. _Blood traitor,_ his mind whispered. _Can’t trust._ He stepped to the door, but the floor tilted and he fell against the doorframe, gripping it as the entire room went sideways.

“Draco!” Her fingers, cool and soft, pressed against his face. “When did you last sleep? Eat?”

He was going cold, the room swirling. The baby was crying. “Let go—I have to—”

“Draco, sit _down._ Now!”

He was on the floor, Andromeda on her knees beside him. The baby gurgled somewhere nearby.

“I have to go,” he said groggily, sitting up.

“You fainted,” said Andromeda. “When did you last eat?”

The room wavered again and Draco lay back on his elbows, shutting his eyes. “I…yesterday. A bit. A Muggle girl gave me…” he shook his head, turning away from her and staring at the wall. “It doesn’t matter. I have to leave. The Ministry will look here, you’re the only family I’ve got—”  

“They won’t find you,” said Andromeda.

Draco finally met her gaze. Her eyes were the only part of her that didn’t remind him of his mother or Bellatrix – they were firmly her own, large and gentle and determined. He didn’t believe her. He couldn’t believe that the blood traitor that had been disowned over thirty years ago, whom he had never met, whose own daughter and husband had may as well been killed by Draco’s own hand, wouldn’t turn him in. Now that he thought about it, he realized it was entirely possible that she had already sent an owl while he was senseless on the floor. “Won’t they,” he said tonelessly.

Andromeda spoke softly but clearly. “Draco Malfoy. I, Andromeda Black, swear on my sister’s life and our father’s blood that while you remain in my house, the Ministry will not find you.”

Draco stopped breathing.

_Damn it._

“But I need to know, will Death Eaters follow you here?”

He didn’t know. He said nothing. Andromeda took a deep breath and sat back on her knees, smoothing the loose strands of her hair back from her forehead. It had streaks of silver in it. The baby gurgled again. Andromeda glanced over her shoulder. Behind her, the baby sat eating crumbs from under the table. “He needs his breakfast.” She looked back at him. “Will you stay?”

He looked at the carpet. He nodded.

“All right. You need to eat and rest.” She stood up and held out a hand to him. He got up without touching it, readjusting the strap on his bag. She let her hand fall and picked up the baby. “Follow me.” She led him upstairs and showed him a small, clean guest bedroom, trimmed with green and purple. He stood uncertainly in the doorway, looking in at the oddly serene, plain room. “You can sleep here, and I’ll make something to eat. We’ll need to talk. But later.” Draco felt a fumbling at his shoulder. He glanced back. The baby had leaned out and was grabbing at the buckle on his bag’s strap.

_Doesn’t fit._

Andromeda captured the hand with her own as Draco jerked away. She seemed to be waiting for Draco to say something, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. “Let me know if you need anything,” she said at last, and walked back down the stairs with the baby fussing on her shoulder.

Draco stepped inside and shut the door, leaning against it.

_Merlin’s beard._

He rubbed his eyes, unable to believe how simple that had been. He’d expected to have to beg, cajole, trick, maybe even bribe. But as much as his common sense screamed at him that this _wasn’t_ normal behavior, he should leave now while he had the chance, before she turned him in—

But she had sworn by blood. A sacred vow treasured by Purebloods the world over. And blood traitor or not, she still dared to claim the right. That meant something. Damn it, it did. Only magical vows were stronger – and even they didn’t _mean_ as much. Somehow it made him angry. He ought to be relieved that he could trust her – but the idea of putting his trust in her, regardless of how much he needed it…the fact that she still had the audacity to swear by blood…

He didn’t want to be angry. Being angry tired him. But he was.

He took slow, hesitating steps into the bedroom. The floorboards creaked beneath the carpet. He sank down onto the mattress, finally took the heavy bag from his shoulder and held it on his lap. He listened to the sound of Andromeda moving downstairs; heard the baby crying. He lay back, holding the bag in his arms. He intended to stare at the ceiling, but exhaustion took hold and he fell asleep instead.

*

When he awoke, the light in the room was very different. His clothes and hair were soaked through with sweat, and he lay in a crumpled position on the bed; the covers twisted and hanging off the sides, though he hadn’t gotten underneath them. He dimly remembered thrashing about, waking and sleeping and waking and sleeping in a feverish haze. He sat up, felt a sharp sting in his arm. He looked down; his sleeve was pushed up to the elbow. The mark was crossed with short, rough scabbed scratches. He glanced at the fingers of his other hand, saw the telltale blood under his fingernails. Yes; he remembered that, too. It had refused to stop burning—whether it was in his dream or in reality he didn’t know.

_Running out of time._

The thought came unbidden. He didn’t know whether it was his parents that were running out of time, or whether it was himself. But he felt the pressure in the back of his skull like a cancerous growth—one that was going to burst fully into his world, fully in the sight of everyone else, and he was going to have to deal with it when it did. It was this thought, this consciousness of the ticking clock, that forced him to stand and leave the room, to have a quick wash, and to tiptoe downstairs.

He heard Andromeda moving around in what he presumed was the kitchen due to the smell of chicken and potatoes wafting from it. He pressed his ear to the door, and took a moment to listen without knowing what he was listening for. Until he realized he was listening for the sounds of the baby that so unnerved him, without knowing why. He heard none, and so straightened his shoulders and raised his chin as he entered the room.

“Hello again,” said Andromeda. The kitchen and dining room combination had several large windows along the wall, but the blinds were all drawn. She stood in the open kitchen portion over a pot of something that steamed and a skillet that sizzled. “I heard you moving about and assumed you’d be ready to eat something.”

Draco said nothing. She scooped out a large bowl of soup and scooped fried potatoes and string beans onto a plate and sent them to the table where there sat a napkin and a single glass of water. She pointed. “Sit. Eat as much as you want, I’ll leave the rest on the stove here.” She moved towards the door; Draco stepped out of her way. She began to close the door and leave him alone, but then paused and added, “You may eat first, but I expect you to begin talking to me afterwards.” She shut the door.

Draco took his time. In that time, Andromeda did not return. When he finished, he continued to sit at the table, head in his hands, trying to decide what to do next. And yet he still saw no solutions, no options. At last, he stood and sought her out.

He found Andromeda in the sitting room, sealing cards in envelopes. The baby was standing by the sofa, balancing himself against the edge, hitting an aquamarine-colored stuffed dragon against the arm repeatedly while babbling to himself. “Come in.” Andromeda looked up at him. He did so, sitting across from her and the baby, back straight, legs crossed. He set his bag at his feet and folded his hands over his knees. “You look like Lucius when you do that.” She sealed another card.

He looked at her fireplace mantle, where people he didn’t recognize smiled and waved. “Is that a problem?” he asked coolly.

“Not in itself.” She set the last card aside, leaned against the arm of the sofa, and looked at him. “Why did you come here?”

He glanced at her, then away. “Believe me, I didn’t want to.”

She sat up a little straighter. “That’s not what I asked, Draco.” The familiarity stung him. Her voice reproved him. “I asked why you are here, not whether you wanted to be.”

He scowled. “Because the Ministry thinks I’ve joined some new Death Eater plot, and I needed a place to hide while I try to figure out how to find my parents.”

“Have you?”

He looked at his nails, rubbed his thumb across his fingertips where he’d found his own blood. “Have I what?”

“Have you joined a new Death Eater plot?”

He glared at her. “No!”

“Have Lucius and Narcissa?”

“No!”

“How do you know?”

The baby let out a wordless yell. Draco flinched and glanced at him, but Andromeda didn’t seem to notice. The baby had pressed his head against that of the dragon, staring slightly cross-eyed into its eyes. He forced himself to look away. “Because,” he snapped, “They haven’t dared leave the manor for weeks and the Ministry’s been dropping in on us night and day, spying on us, wand checks, the works—and there’s the tiny problem that all the other Death Eaters hate us, so even if we wanted to join some new plot of theirs we’d have a rough time helping them out before they slaughtered us.”

Andromeda nodded. She didn’t seem perturbed by his venom. “So what do you believe you can do that the Ministry can’t?”

Draco pressed his lips tightly together, feeling new anger bubble in him. “I can care,” he snarled. “I can give a rat’s ass whether I find my parents sooner, alive, rather than later, dead.”

She nodded again, her forehead creasing and lips pursing. The baby lost his balance and sat down hard on the floor. Andromeda commented, “If the Ministry has been watching you closely, why are they so convinced that you’re up to something?”

He slouched, crossing his arms. “Damned if I know. They’re obsessed. They’ve got a vendetta.”

“Why?”

He scowled. “Because…” He trailed off. Why, indeed? “They hate us. They don’t care.” But he got a hollow feeling in his chest—like he was forgetting something important.

“It seems a lot,” said Andromeda thoughtfully. “To be so certain of something unless they had some sort of evidence for it.”

“Evidence?” Draco snorted. “Peasegood wouldn’t know evidence if it punched him in the—” He stopped. Realization spilled over him like ice water. _The folder._

“Who’s Peasegood?”

“No one,” said Draco, distracted, his thoughts whirling. That folder, the one in Peasegood’s office. Draco himself had become convinced his parents were hiding something because of what that folder contained, and he’d only seen a small portion. What else—what could possibly—

Draco’s hands tightened on the chair’s arms as he clenched his teeth. _He knows something._ He didn’t believe that his parents were up to anything – not anymore. But Peasegood must have a reason for fixating on his family. He’d assumed he was just self-important; obsessive; hateful. But he surely wouldn’t remain so for over a year, without success, unless he had a reason. _What’s he hiding?_

“And if they have some sort of evidence,” Andromeda continued softly. “That would suggest that someone isn’t entirely innocent, wouldn’t it?”

“You believe the Ministry?” he said scathingly, “Over your own family? Your own sister?”

Andromeda ran her fingers along the floral pattern of the sofa, still speaking softly. “Draco, I haven’t had any news from my sister other than what the newspapers and my acquaintances tell me. As much as I would like to believe that she still retains the innocence of a little girl and that her family would not resort back to bloody power-seeking schemes…she hasn’t really given me much of a reason to think otherwise.”

Draco stood up. “Why hide me, then?” he demanded. “If you hate her so much.”

Andromeda frowned. “I don’t hate her. Cissy disowned me, Draco, not the other way around.” She paused, her eyes unfocused. “She was fourteen.”

“That’s it, then?” He was trembling. How dare she be so calm, so untouched, so unscathed, so unhurt, so inhuman. “Just like that? Sit there all coolly, waiting for the right moment to turn her in? Cold revenge? You aren’t even angry?”

“Of course I’m angry!” Andromeda’s eyes flashed and her voice rose. The baby went silent, staring at her with wide eyes. “My husband and daughter are dead and my grandson is orphaned, for reasons directly related to the actions my sister, her husband, and _you_ took. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to throw my little sister’s son to the wolves when he shows up on my doorstep, whoever they might be.”

The room spun slightly, her words clanging around his skull. He grabbed at the back of the chair with one hand. Andromeda misunderstood his confusion.

“I don’t know what Cissy and Lucius are up to,” she said, visibly calming herself as the baby let out a small whimper. “But it seems clear to me that they haven’t involved you. This time.” She paused for a moment. “I can commend Narcissa and Lucius for that, at least.” Her gaze flickered to Draco’s left forearm.

He should be able to discard it; it shouldn’t matter. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of being deeply deceived, yet again (by who, he couldn’t pinpoint) and the word left his mouth anyway. “…grandson...” and he was staring at the baby who, to his surprise, was staring right back, unblinking, mouth slightly ajar with drool gathering on the lower lip. Draco’s stomach jumped. The boy’s light brown hair paled at the roots, then swept out to the ends in a swath of white-blonde. “What…!”

Andromeda followed his gaze to the baby and, for the first time, he saw her smile gently. “He’s a metamorphmagus,” she said. “Like his mother. He tends to imitate people when he sees them for the first time.” Draco’s blood was draining from his face. The smile faltered, frown lines appearing between her eyebrows. “Your cousin was a metamorphmagus. Didn’t you know?”

His knees felt weak and nausea suddenly rolled in his stomach. “Cousin…”

She looked from him, to the baby, then back. “Draco, this is Teddy Lupin. Your cousin. My daughter’s son.” He could only stare, even as the baby went back to playing, and Andromeda’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t know.” Her voice was a whisper. His breath was shaking. He didn’t answer. Andromeda repeated, “You didn’t _know_?”

_“What say you, Draco? Will you babysit the cubs?”_

“I knew she married the werewolf,” Draco said, his voice high and panicked. “I didn’t know that she—that they—”

Andromeda wilted. She leaned over, burying her face in her palms.

 _Run away,_ his instincts said. _Run away._

He would have, if he’d had anywhere to run to. The baby—Teddy—raised the dragon above his head and threw it as hard as he could. It bounced onto the floor a few feet away and he crawled over to Andromeda, tugging on her skirt as he climbed into a standing position. “Ga-ma,” he said. “Ga-ma!”

Andromeda let her hands fall. Her cheeks were wet. Draco looked away as she picked him up. They were both quiet for a moment. Andromeda took a deep breath. “You need to turn yourself in.”

Alarm slammed into his chest. Draco took several steps back, staring at her in horror. “You can’t! You swore you wouldn’t!”

“Yes I did,” said Andromeda calmly. Her eyes were now dry. “I’m not going back on my word. But you need to turn yourself in.”

“No, I don’t.” Draco turned away from her with jerky movements and went to one of the covered windows. He put his hand on the blinds and let it rest there, without looking back. His left hand shook. He clenched it tight, then tucked it under his other arm. _As long as you are under my roof, the Ministry will not find you._

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, there was knock on the front door. Draco jumped, spinning around. Andromeda’s gaze shifted. She stood. “Excuse me,” she said, and stepped out. Draco moved to the doorway of the room, but remained hidden behind it, listening to Andromeda’s footsteps

“Hello.”

“Hello, Mrs. Tonks. Sorry to be bothering you again, but we’re still looking for your nephew. He was spotted late last afternoon in Croyden and—” Draco leapt backwards and looked wildly around him. “—we’re checking every nearby place where he could be.”

He drew his wand and held his breath.

“I understand,” said Andromeda. “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you, though. The Malfoys have never thought of me as family.”

“Are you sure you’re all right here, on your own? We still have that offer…”

Draco picked up his bag and looked around the room, plotting escape routes as his adrenaline rushed wildly. Maybe, if need be, he could simply make a break for it down the hall, through the kitchen, out the back—

“I’m quite all right,” said Andromeda. “As is Teddy.”

“Oh, well, remember you can call on us at any time. If you like we can send someone around to check on you, just to make sure you’re all right.”

“That’s not necessary. Thank you for the offer.”

“All right. Thank you for your help. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon.”

The door shut. Draco realized he’d been holding and his breath and he let it out, slowly. He went back to the drawn shades, watched the shadow of the wizard leave. He heard Andromeda come back into the room and he said, deadpan, “You’re going to turn me in when I leave, aren’t you.”

“There’s nothing you can do, Draco.”

He felt that old burning in his arm again, lighting up his scratches like fire, but it didn’t feel foreign. It felt raw and black and familiar and powerful.

_Watch me._

He could feel her stare burning into his back.

“I’m sorry this has happened to you.”

Draco shut his eyes tight. His voice came out in a growl. “I don’t want your sympathy.”

“I know.”

“So keep it to yourself.” He turned again, looked at his cousin— _cousin—_ chewing on his fingers in his aunt’s arms, and spoke without thinking, “Is he a werewolf?”

Andromeda frowned. “I’ll thank you not to talk about him in that condescending tone of voice.”

Draco scowled. “I just wondered.”

“And I wonder just what exactly you know about my family,” said Andromeda, her fingers twirling in a lock of Teddy’s white-blond hair. “Since you didn’t know the existence of your own cousin.”

Her voice wasn’t accusatory. Why, then, did it make him feel so _guilty_. “Nobody told me.”

Andromeda hmm’d. “Well, they were both a bit too busy fighting a war to send out announcements.” She took her seat again on the sofa, and Teddy squirmed to be set down. “Do you know their names, at least?”

“Lupin was my professor.”

“Yes, I know. What about my husband and daughter?”

“Ted,” said Draco. He ventured back across the room, leaning across the back of the chair but not sitting down again. “And—something…odd. Started with a D.”

Andromeda cracked a smile. “N, actually,” she said. “Nymphadora. She hated that name. We called her Dora. She didn’t like that much better.” Teddy had found the dragon again, and he let out a sharp cry of delight. “He’s shown no signs of lycanthropy,” Andromeda said suddenly. “We think he hasn’t inherited it.” One finger of her folded hands tapped against her knuckles, then she pointed at one of the photographs on the mantle. “That’s Ted. With his best friend, from about fifteen years ago.” Draco didn’t look, but she continued. “That’s Dora, and that’s the first good photograph we have of Teddy, when his hair turned aquamarine without warning.” She smiled. “It’s how we found out he’s a metamorphmagus. Did you know that Dora was a metamorphmagus?” He said nothing. Teddy was chewing on the dragon’s right ear. Her hand came back down. “I asked you a question, Draco. Did you know?”

He stared at the opposite wall, feeling distinctly like he was being interrogated. Muttered, “No.”

“Cissy knew. She met Dora, once, on accident. We were invited to the same function at the Ministry. It was in the middle of the first war – very uncomfortable. I introduced her to Dora, told her she was a metamorphmagus. Did she tell you I was poison?”

Draco’s gaze shifted back towards her, startled at the abrupt change in questioning. “What?”

Andromeda’s voice betrayed no strong emotion, but her eyes were searching. “That was the last time I spoke to Cissy, at that party. The last thing she ever said to me was to stay away from her. To never speak to her again. That I was poison. Did she tell you the same?”

He rubbed his wrist. “She doesn’t tell me anything. She doesn’t talk about you.”

Andromeda sighed. “No, I suppose she wouldn’t.”

Draco hated the sound of resignation in her voice, the sound of martyred acceptance. It reminded him of Lucius. He looked down at his wrist as he rubbed it and realized that the end of the mark was exposed. He pulled his sleeve back into place.

Andromeda refused to look away from him, just as stubbornly as he refused to look at her. Teddy talked nonsense to the dragon. “Do you know how Ted and Dora died?”

Her words hurt. They twisted in his gut like a skewer. He folded his arms tight against his ribs as he leaned against the back of the chair. He meant to say nothing. But what came out was, “It wasn’t my fault.” Something about the dragon seemed to disagree with Teddy; he started crying.

“I didn’t say it was.”

_It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t._

“Do you know how they died?”

He did, actually. “Yeah.”

“Tell me.”

“Why, don’t you know?” He tried to sneer; he tried to say it mockingly, but the words came out too quickly, too defiant, too desperate. It wasn’t very convincing. He wanted to get up, to storm out, to leave this idiotic interrogation, to go find his parents. But he felt weighed down and bound to this chair, helpless to resist her relentless questions that seemed so innocent and shallow, and yet dug too deep.

She remained calm. “Yes. But I want to be sure that you do.”

Draco bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, fighting the discomfort and the blackness in the back of his mind while he tried to remember. “Cousin, Battle of Hogwarts. Um…” He trailed off, the word sticking on his tongue for several seconds before he pushed out, “Uncle…Snatchers.”

How odd. He had never thought of Edward Tonks as his uncle before. And now he was dead. And his cousin was dead, without his ever meeting her. And she had a son who now had no parents. The thoughts bombarded him, brought back a throbbing in his scratched arm, brought an emptiness that inflated inside of him, swallowing up everything else. He clenched his fingers around his wrist.

Andromeda was silent for a long time; he thought she might be holding back tears, but he didn’t dare look at her to confirm. He stared at the carpet at the side-table’s feet.

“Did you ever meet Dora?”

His voice seemed to be leaving him; darkness throbbing in the back of his mind. “No.”

“Did you see her? That day?”

“I…” He tried to think; but he wasn’t even sure he knew what she looked like. “I don’t know. I might have. I don’t know.” He swallowed. Teddy quieted. There was sandpaper in Draco’s throat. His voice was little more than a whisper. “I…” He was trying to say, _I was just trying to stay alive,_ but what came out was, “I didn’t want them to die.”

Another long silence. Teddy sniffed. “Then I want you to tell me you’re sorry.”

The simple phrase nearly knocked him senseless. His hands slowly gripped onto the back of the chair, emotions whipping up in a cyclone of denial, anger, guilt, shame, offense, irritation…he shrank into himself, hardly breathing, feeling himself slowly press into the chair as if hoping he could sink through it and disappear. He didn’t speak. The longer he didn’t speak, the more absolute and glaring and _loud_ the silence became. He licked his lips. He whispered. “…I didn’t kill them.” _I didn’t want them to die. It’s not my fault._

Teddy hiccupped. It was a dagger in his side.

_It’s not my fault!_

Andromeda’s voice was quiet. “I know you didn’t.” His consciousness was curling inward on himself, even as he stood motionless. Shrinking away without lifting a finger. “That’s not why I’m asking. I’m asking for an acknowledgement that you were wrong. I’m asking for an acknowledgement of the loss I’ve suffered—of Teddy’s loss—because of what you and your parents helped to bring about.”

His fingers were going numb, he was gripping the chair so fiercely. He said nothing.

“Why is that so difficult?” Andromeda asked softly. She gave a sigh, and then stood. She was leaving the room, Teddy and an aquamarine stuffed dragon in her arms.

Draco shut his eyes tight, feeling the tension in every part of him build, every possible negative emotion looking for a release, some pore to escape from. He felt what seemed like grief, the feeling that he’d been robbed, but that couldn’t be right—nothing had changed, everything was the same as it was—he had lost nothing-- _nothing--_ and it wasn’t his fault—none of it—

But that didn’t explain the pressure behind his eyes and in his throat, the inexplicable kaleidoscope of betrayal and loss and anger and confusion and regret.

Regret for what? He couldn’t have done anything different. 

He spoke to her back; he mouthed the words. They were less than a whisper, a mere puff of breath from his lips, an experiment, a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure inside.

“… _sorry_...”

Andromeda stopped dead still. She didn’t turn around. Then she left without another word. Draco gritted his teeth until pain radiated from his jaw into his skull. Then he raked his nails down his arm, opening up the thin scabs. He bit down on his knuckles and curled in on himself and clutched his wand in his hands while burning tears seeped from his eyes and silent sobs heaved in his chest and the voices in his head mocked him and he begged silently for he didn’t know what.

*

_I want to go home._

He sat on the bed, clutching his arm and staring at the ground in his aunt’s house as the room slowly darkened as the sun set, a crater-sized ache in his chest.

He could stay here. The thought did occur to him. She couldn’t go back on her word; he would be safe. Hidden. For as long as he needed. It was a prison, yes, but so was the manor. In the house of his dead cousin and dead Mudblood uncle and half-blood werewolf-spawn cousin he hadn’t even known existed. A world that had collided so rudely with his own, that he’d tried to smother and forget—the fact that it was here, welcoming him when he had nowhere to go—it was almost more than he could bear. He hated it. He hated this feeling of safety in the entirely wrong place. The manor had ghosts, but at least they weren’t the ghosts of his family.

_Not family._

Blood then.

_Not blood. Not family. Not blood. Not really. Not by half. Not—_

He shuddered.

_I want to go home._

The gloomy manor with its dark corners and its oppressive memories. And his parents. And a sickening, desperate desire to be back there, nightmares and humiliation and all.

He rubbed his thumb along his wrist, hard. The skin was beginning to feel bruised. He missed Severus. He didn’t know why, now, his mind suddenly and strongly latched desperately onto the memory of Severus. How foolish he’d been to push him away, to not trust him, to not trust anyone…he’d give anything to have him here again now…

_“I’ve been practicing something new, Severus, want to see?”_

_“That’s a pointless question, considering you always show me whether I want to see or not.”_

_Severus stood in the front courtyard, head craned towards the sky as Draco circled above him. The bright, hot sunlight made him look oddly out of place, like a bat who’d gotten confused and was flapping about in the middle of the day. He’d said he’d come to see Narcissa and Lucius, but they were both having a meeting with the Minister at the Ministry. Unperturbed at Severus’s lack of enthusiasm, Draco carefully steadied the broom, took a deep breath, and slowly swung himself over until he was hanging upside down. He bit his lip in concentration and urged the broom forward so that it moved slowly in a straight line, not gaining or losing altitude. Draco felt the blood rushing into his head and quite liked it._

_“Well done,” said Severus. “Though I’m not entirely certain what you plan to do with that move.”_

_“You never know, do you?” Draco stopped the broom above Severus’s head and grinned upside-down at him. “Say, did you know that Harry Potter’s supposedly coming to Hogwarts this year? If he’s going to Hogwarts, that is. But I can’t imagine him not going, can you?”_

_Severus frowned deeply. “I know,” he said simply._

_Draco urged his broom to go a bit faster, watching the grass move below his head. He began to feel dizzy. “I wonder what he’s like. Father supposes he must be a powerful Dark Wizard, considering he’s what made the Dark Lord go missing. I hope he is. He’ll be in Slytherin if that’s the case, of course. I plan to find him as soon as I can and introduce myself—I hope we’re in the same dormitory. Do you think Father could fix that for me?”_

_“I think,” said Severus, in a surprisingly harsh voice, “You ought not to speak so openly about such things.”_

_Draco’s hands slipped and the broom bucked. He clung to it and righted himself, looking down at Severus. “I’m not speaking openly, Severus,” he said in a hurt voice, astonished that Severus thought so little of his sensibility. “I’m talking to **you**. I know how not to blab.” Severus crossed his arms and looked across the yard without answering. Draco decided to change the subject as he landed the broom, hoping to get Severus back into a friendlier mood before he decided to leave. “I suppose I had better start calling you Professor Snape, hadn’t I?”_

_“No need quite yet,” said Severus, shrugging. “It’s a month until the start of term.”_

_Draco got off the broom and swung it up onto his shoulder. “I can’t imagine you as a professor.”_

_“No?” Severus’s eyebrows lifted. “Why not?”_

_“I dunno. I guess I just always imagined them like…” Draco let his broom fall to the ground. He tugged his robes into place, adjusted imaginary spectacles on the end of his nose, and peered over them with squinted eyes. He spoke in the most lofty, scratchy, condescending voice he could manage, hunching over and stabbing a finger at an imaginary student. “That is **incorrect** , Goyle. Honestly, didn’t you any of you **read** the assignment? If any of you have any hope of becoming as distinguished as me…” He straightened and tossed his head, caressing an imaginary long beard with one hand. “I expect you all to adhere to the rules! That means…NO whispering! NO giggling! COMPLETELY straight lines at all times! STRICT adherence to the schedule! And Weasley, just what exactly do you call those things you’re wearing? They’re hardly robes, what, did you pick them up from the scrap pile?” He pushed the imaginary spectacles up to the bridge of his nose, tugging his robes into place again. “However, Malfoy looks as though  he didn’t get dressed in the dark—his hair looks especially impeccable today. Fifty points to Slytherin.”_

_Had any of Draco’s friends been present, they would be in stitches over this performance. Severus, however, did something much more rewarding—he smiled. “I assure you, I can be most intimidating.”_

_“Nah,” Draco grinned at him, picking his broom back up. “If you try that on me I’ll just picture your face covered with whipped cream.”_

_Severus frowned, but it wasn’t at all severe. “That was your doing, not mine.”_

_“Yeah, well, it was supposed to go to Dobby, wasn’t it?” Draco snickered. “You just walked in at the wrong time—”_

_“I remember,” said Severus sharply, cutting him off._

_“Blimey,” something else occurred to Draco. “You’re going to have to start calling me Malfoy, aren’t you?”_

_“Yes indeed.” Severus moved towards the manor’s front doors and Draco followed him._

_“Say—er, **Professor** —” Draco fought back a laugh. “I’ve just had a great idea.”_

_“Do tell… **Malfoy** ,” said Severus, in a voice that suggested he highly doubted that his idea would be worth anything._

_“Ask a ridiculously advanced question the first day,” said Draco. “Pick one, right now. Something obscure. Tell me the answer. And then I’ll speak up and shock everybody—”_

_“No,” said Severus._

_“Why not?” Draco swung his broom back and forth in his hand. “It’d be great—the looks on everyone’s faces—” He laughed, imagining it._

_“That would be giving you an unfair advantage,” said Severus, but he was smiling again._

_“You don’t have to give Slytherin points for it,” Draco grinned at him._

_“The answer is still no. You’ll have to prepare like everyone else. Your goal should be to shock **me** by completing your homework on time.”_

_“You’re no fun,” complained Draco. “You know I’ll have to, Mother and Father will kill me if I let things slip. Mum has me studying already, and August’s just started—”_

“Just what is it do you think you’re doing?”

Draco blinked and looked up, pausing momentarily in his relentless rubbing of his bruised skin. The sun had gone completely down by now, shrouding the room in darkness. And there, standing in the shadows in a corner, was Severus, glowering at him. Somehow, he didn’t feel surprised, though he did feel a bit confused about the question. _What? What am I supposed to be doing?_

“You don’t want to be here,” said Severus. “Why are you still here?”

_Because I don’t know where to go._

“Wrong. You know exactly what you need to do. You’re just too afraid to face it.”

Draco scowled at him. _I’m not turning myself in._

“That isn’t what I’m talking about, and you know it. The only reason you’re still sitting here is you’d rather wallow in self-pity and feel safe than get up and _do_ it. You’d rather ignore the Dark Mark than face it and be done with it.”

Draco glanced down at his arm, curled his fingers around the wrist. _What do you know? You aren’t even real. A hallucination, I guess. That would be a natural progression of my state of mind. Or else I fell asleep._

“Then congratulations, a figment of your imagination has more sense than you. Are you proud?”

_I really don’t want to deal with your contempt too, Severus, even if you aren’t real. So unless you’re going to say something useful, please go away._

“Coward.”

Draco looked back up and glared at him. _I already know I’m a coward, Severus, I don’t need you to point it out!_

“Wrong again,” said Severus. “You say that like it’s an integral part of you. You wear it proudly like an irremovable brand on your character.”

_Isn’t it?_

Severus’s voice lowered almost to a whisper, and in it Draco heard an undercurrent of rage unlike anything he’d ever heard from him even in life. His black eyes glittered. “Don’t insult me, Draco Malfoy.” He took a step forward, his fingers curled like claws. He would have stepped out of the deepest shadows, but he seemed to bring them with him; they draped about him like the shroud of death in which Severus now was. “Cowardice is not a predator, snatching helpless victims and devouring them whole.” He took another step forward. “Cowardice is not an unfair disadvantage, to be printed on a banner and waved by the martyrs of nature’s cruel whims as reason to do nothing.” He advanced again. Draco’s heart began to pound. “Courage is not a trait with which we are born, it is not something that Gryffindors can’t help but have. No-one can face their own death every day and choose to do so with the natural ease that comes with an innate aspect of their personality. Courage and cowardice is not _things_.” Severus stopped at the foot of the bed, glaring over at him. Draco was having a hard time breathing. “Cowardice is to be faced with the opportunity to do right and instead choose, continuously, to do… _nothing_.”

Draco got the uneasy feeling that Severus was not talking about finding his parents.

“Now,” continued Severus, and his voice was suddenly much louder, and he was suddenly standing directly in front of Draco without having walked there. “Get UP.” And he struck Draco hard across the face, throwing him down across the bed with the force of it.

Draco blinked. He was breathing hard, his ears buzzing. Beyond the buzz he heard the faint tick of the clock in his room. It was pitch black. He sat up, groping for his wand.

“L-lumos,” he stammered. Light flared; the room was empty, of course. His heart was racing. “Bloody hell.”

_I’m going mad._

He stared intently around the room, searching for someone he knew wasn’t there. He didn't know what Severus had meant; he didn't know that there was any meaning in his words at all, other than his own fevered ravings. But he had a single, hot pinprick of a thought engraved in his mind.

_I have to bring them home._

_Get up._

He stood up.

A voice whispered, _You don’t even know where they are._

_I don’t care._

He picked up his bag, settled it across his shoulder. He took up his broom in one hand.

_I have to make it home._

The vision of a file was in his mind; a self-satisfied smile, a smirking face that hid a secret.

_You may as well be turning yourself in!_

_Then Aunt Andromeda can be proud of me._

He thought about leaving a note. His fingers hovered over a quill. But he didn’t. He had to leave, now, before she woke up, before she realized he was gone, before she called the Ministry and turned him in.

_They are going to kill you._

He grinned without humor as he slipped out into the dark street. _Maybe not. The Death Eaters might get to me first._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, writing this one was hard. Not sure why. Probably because we know so little about Andromeda but I wanted to do her justice. Took several re-writes before the tone felt right.
> 
> Also, I was overwhelmed by all the nice comments you guys left last chapter. Thanks so much, they made my two weeks! :)


	20. Chapter 20

Savage sat in his office, arms crossed, leaning back, utterly still. One might think he was asleep—it was, after all, in the middle of the night—or even dead, except for his wide-open eyes that blinked very occasionally. He stared at the opposite wall. But he didn’t see the paint: he saw scrolls of names, interconnected lines, employee history, all rushing by in his mind’s eye.

Something was missing. Something was wrong. It was staring him right in the face, he knew it. And yet as he searched he couldn’t quite see it, didn’t quite know…

“Mr. Savage, sir?”

Savage looked up. Harry Potter stood in the doorway, hair even more wild than usual, like he’d just been flying. He probably had, as he’d been accompanying Berkeley tonight on patrol.

Potter shifted. “Harven said you wanted to see me.”

“Yes,” said Savage. “How was your time in Kent?”

Potter looked slightly taken aback. “Er,” he said. “All right. Got back this morning—I mean, yesterday morning.”

“Were you successful?”

“Not really.” Potter scratched at his ear and his gaze wandered around the interior of Savage’s office. When Savage made no response he added, “Thanks for the time off. Luna appreciated it.”

Savage nodded. “Sit down, Potter.”

Potter again looked surprised, but he took a few steps into the office and looked down at the chair in front of Savage’s desk, which was currently occupied by a rather thick folder and a crumpled memo about a fresh delivery of Confundus Grenades, a restricted item delivered specially to the Law Enforcement Office, one of the few places in Britain where they were legally carried. Savage had put them there while he was thinking: clutter on his desk distracted him, and he didn’t have a proper place for the folder yet. He waved a hand and the folder and memo flew obediently out of the chair and settled on a bench by the open doorway instead. Potter sat down in the chair and looked at him attentively.

Without prelude, Savage said, “This is a serious situation we have on our hands, Potter. I wonder what you would do in my position.”

Potter blinked rapidly. “Sir?” Savage said nothing. Potter looked extremely confused, and a little disgruntled. “Er,” he said. “I dunno. Pretty much what you’re doing already. Question people who know the people who’ve gone missing. Search for clues.” He hesitated, then added, “Look at profiles, ask people for alibis, see who was off work when, see who has time that’s unaccounted for, that sort of thing.”

Savage said quietly, “Sounds as though you suspect someone of being a turncoat, Potter.”

Potter’s forehead furrowed underneath his messy hair. “Don’t you?”

“I always suspect someone,” said Savage vaguely. “So tell me, Potter, if you have allowed your curiosity to lead you to investigate classified information to which only highly qualified Aurors have access.”

Potter stared at him for a moment, looking both astonished and indignant. “Don’t you trust me, sir?”

“That depends on how you define ‘trust,’” said Savage. “Trust you to always follow my orders? No. Trust you to always attempt to do the right thing? Yes.” Potter smiled slightly. “That was not a compliment, Potter.” The smile faded. “Unfortunately, everyone in this world attempts to do the right thing. The problem is that everyone tends to disagree on what exactly that is. Ordellus tells me you really did go straight to Kent and back, so I have no issues with you on that point. However—”

Potter interrupted him. “You had me _followed_?”  Now more than simply indignant, Potter looked angry.

“Yes,” said Savage coolly.

“Sir you don’t _honestly_ think I’d be involved in trying to set Death Eaters free, do you?” Potter glowered, hands tight on the arms of his chair, bent slightly forward as if he wanted to stand up and was having a difficult time not doing it.

“No,” said Savage calmly. “But you have shown great propensity for bending and outright breaking the rules in the past—Miss Granger is testament to that, as you have shared with her classified information—”

“I haven’t been snooping around looking for parts of the enchantments on the Malfoys’ manor, _sir_.”

It was Savage’s turn to be taken off guard. He looked closely at Potter. “Did I say anything about Malfoy Manor?”

“That’s what it is, isn’t it?” Potter muttered, leaning back slightly and looking at the floor. “You reckon somebody let slip where the parts were, or else turned them off, don’t you? I thought everyone thought that.”

“No,” said Savage in a careful monotone. “No, most of my employees seem to think strong Dark Magic was involved, which momentarily broke through the Ministry’s enchantments.”

“…oh.” Several emotions flitted over Potter’s face, and then landed on one that looked slightly alarmed. He looked up again. “But I didn’t get that idea because I did it, sir!”

Savage smiled. “I was thinking nothing of the sort, Potter. On the contrary…” he left the sentence unfinished, and instead moved briskly to the next subject. “Of all of us, you know Draco Malfoy the best, on a personal level, wouldn’t you say?”

Potter looked taken aback again. “Oh, I dunno. I guess. Maybe. We’re not friends.”

“You don’t have to be friends to know someone personally. Tell me, do you think Draco Malfoy is attempting to run away or to come back?”

Savage expected him to think it over for a moment, but he said immediately and plainly, “Come back.”

“Why is that?”

“Couple reasons,” Potter seemed more at ease now that the questioning had turned into something less like an interrogation. He sat up straighter. “Mainly because Luna says he’s going to try to find his parents. Cares too much about them to leave them. But also because he’s a bit of an idiot.”

“Didn’t you also tell me once that he’s something of a coward?”

Potter shrugged. “Yeah. But I reckon even Malfoy’s got a breaking point. Seems like this’d be it, if anything would be. Besides, if he’s in London still, I don’t think his plan is to leave.”

“ ‘Try to find his parents,’ ” Savage repeated. “So you stand by your earlier assumption that Draco Malfoy is not directly involved.”

“Yeah,” said Potter, then looked curiously at him. “But you know that. He wouldn’t have come back to the Manor after his parents had gone if he’d been involved. He’s an idiot, but he’s not stupid.” He paused, then added, “Wait a moment, sir, is this a test?”

“Something like that.” Savage gestured to the door. “You may go now.” Potter rose to leave. “But Potter…” he waited until Potter had turned back to face him. “If you see Draco Malfoy, if he comes to you, you are to report it immediately to me. That’s an order. Do you understand?”

Potter frowned. “I understand, sir, but I don’t imagine Draco Malfoy would ever dream of coming to me for any reason.”

*

It was exhilarating to be in the air again, as dank and damp as it was to be hidden in the low-hanging clouds. But to fly as fast as he might, with little fear of being seen, with the wind in his cloud-soaked hair and the roar of it in his ears, the chill in his fingers wrapped around the wet handle, feeling the thrill of speed—it was the greatest freedom he’d experienced since before the war. He could have Apparated, but he wasn’t entirely sure that he could Apparate far enough away so that no one would hear him. Not to mention flying at top speed was a good distraction, a way to keep his mind off what he was about to do…besides, he had several hours before dawn, plenty of time to get there. As for what he’d do afterward…he’d either have to do it in an incredibly short amount of time, or get caught. Either way, time wasn’t an issue.

He slowed to a complete stop occasionally, to get out his wand and check his heading. He thought continually of trying to find a different way, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t find any Muggles to help him in the middle of the night, walking through the Ministry’s front doors (or side doors or back doors, for that matter) would be suicide. One could use hidden doors to get out, perhaps…but not get in.

And he couldn’t use the Imperius Curse to force someone to do it for him.

Wouldn’t.

Eventually, he began to dip down through the clouds, searching for familiar landmarks. Funnily enough, he’d never seen it from very far in the air—not at a distance, anyway, and it was difficult to recognize from so far away. But after some time of following his wand as a compass, his heart jumped into his mouth as he recognized it—a mottle of black that blended in with the surrounding trees and fields, but with a single light in an upstairs window. He slowed, concentrating hard, muttered under his breath. Nothing. He took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and tried again. When he opened them his hands and broom blended in with his misty surroundings. He’d always had trouble with Disillusionment.

Trusting that the charm would hold, Draco dipped just below the cloud line and hovered, squinting through the misty air at the lights. Directly below him was uninhabited brush and trees. He took out his wand and, one-handed, sped towards the ground as quickly as he could. He landed in the dark, dismounted, and held his wand at the ready.

Silence. Draco replaced the broom in his bag. If he were spotted now, he would Apparate rather than flying; Apparition was faster, and he couldn’t Apparate while flying. He needed to have his mind fully on that one task, or it might result in nasty consequences. He walked to the edge of the trees and waited for another full minute. Still nothing. He took deep breaths, closed his eyes, and used Occlumency to calm himself. His heart to slow to a steady, solid rhythm. He was all too aware that once he’d done this there wouldn’t be any backing out. No plan B’s. Everything would be on red alert. Each heartbeat felt as though it were sending surges of strength through him, sharpening every one of his senses, like a hunter on the prowl. He opened his eyes and stepped out of the tree cover and walked quickly and steadily in the direction of the light though, now that he was on the ground, he couldn’t actually see it.

The ends of his trousers became wet with dew as he trekked through the empty fields, getting odd senses of déjà vu. Just a week ago, he’d been walking these same fields and outskirted paths, late at night…

As he drew close he walked more slowly, holding onto the hope that there was no-one actually watching the grounds, because if there weren’t he could slip inside without alerting anybody…

He stopped within view of the front gates and crouched down, wand in hand. As he sat waiting, he noticed the light in the manor was moving, slowly. Flickering and faint. A candle, perhaps. It moved from room to room, pausing for short intervals before continuing. He doubted Aurors would be searching the manor with a candle instead of wand light, if not by simply lighting the lamps and fireplaces. It must be Nippy, going through her nightly routine. For some reason, even though he had banked this entire trip on Nippy being back in the manor by now, a lump came into his throat. He blinked rapidly.

A sound of movement nearby. Draco, already holding still with his hood pulled down low, stopped breathing, eyes wide, staring straight ahead, watching for movement in the corners of his eyes. A hooded figure passed by. Not by the front gates, but alarmingly close—nearly close enough to touch. Draco began to feel dizzy, but he didn’t start breathing again until the figure was far away. He slowly let out his breath. So much for walking in, then. He gazed at the light as it moved to another room. It was difficult to see, what with the cloud cover cutting off most of the light from the moon and stars. He counted silently, trying to see how many windows the light had passed by…it was on the second floor, but which room…?

His heart was beginning to hammer again, try as he might to keep it quiet. He went over his plan again in his mind. This first step might not work, not if they’d quarantined the manor. But he had a feeling they hadn’t. This was exactly what they wanted him to do, this was exactly what they were waiting for, they would know where he was the moment he crossed in…

He closed his eyes briefly. Counted silently, gripped his wand tight in his hand, and Apparated.

He appeared in a room full of portraits with a loud and obvious crack. There was a small shriek; the candle went out, and then a sharp cry of, “Master Malfoy!”

Draco lit up his wand. “Nippy—” he began, but she was wailing.

“Master Malfoy must not return! Master Malfoy must flee, immediately! They are watching! They will know!”

“Shut up and listen!” Draco shouted, his adrenaline already rushing. He heard a cracking sound in the next room, and he lowered his voice, his nerves taunt. He had a few seconds at the most, Aurors would be pouring in now, alerted by the alarm spells. “Apparate me into the Ministry, Nippy. The place they took you. Now!”

Her eyes shone as she stared at him, mouth open. “But—”

Another crack; footsteps running in the hall. “Now!” his voice came out in a snarl. He reached down and seized her hand. The handle on the door clicked. “Do it!”

Her eyes were swimming; Draco blinked, and he was suddenly in another room. It shone white and clean by the light his wand, containing nothing but a table and chairs, a door, and darkened window. Heavy with silence. His Apparation here would have caused noise, of course, so he didn’t hesitate. He crossed over to the door and opened it, looking into the hall, wand raised and ready to stun. There was no sound. Perhaps there had been no one around to hear. But even if house-elves could get past anti-Apparition charms in the Ministry, Draco didn’t doubt that they would be able to pick up an unauthorized Apparition. He walked down the hall, past several similar doors, each with different numbers on them. Then as he reached a branch in corridors, he got an uncomfortable swopping sensation in his stomach as he came face to face with a half-open door emblazoned with the modest nameplate, _Maguire Savage, Head Auror._

He instinctively took several steps back. The office, however (by what he could see through the door) appeared to be empty. Though its light was still on, and was either only momentarily empty or abandoned in haste. But at least he was on the right floor. Draco swallowed hard and hurried past the door, trying to remember exactly the path he’d taken to get here before, all those months ago. This hall was much like the others, with the exception of a sort of panel high up, near the ceiling. He rounded another corner and nearly collided with a familiar, curly-haired witch.

“Oh, excuse—you!”

An explosion of red light; she fell to the floor with a thud. Draco hoped that the reason he’d gotten the jump on a trained Auror was the fact that she’d had no idea he was here. That would be slightly comforting. He stepped over her stunned form and ran down the hall, glancing more and more frantically at the nameplates as he passed. Wrong…wrong…wrong…blank…wrong…where the hell was it? Draco stopped and turned around, imagining walking down this hall, turning the corner, Savage’s office on the right…yes, this was the right hall. Where the hell then was the right door?

He went back more slowly, his stomach clenching. He stopped at the blank door. Maybe….

He tried the handle. It turned. He pushed it open. Yes, this was the one. The ridiculously large desk and ornate chair, with the plain wooden one in front of it, was a definite indicator. But the shelves behind it were oddly empty; nothing but a dusty matchbox and a dying potted plant remained. The walls, too, were emptier, though a few generic maps of London and the surrounding areas still hung there. Feeling apprehensive, he shut the door behind him and went to the desk. “ _Alohomora_!” The desk drawer opened so easily, it couldn’t have been locked. It was also empty. Draco cursed. He opened the other drawers, then turned and surveyed the shelves, though he knew there wasn’t anything there.

He stood still a moment, thinking. He couldn’t have come all this way for nothing. He had nowhere else to turn if he couldn’t find it. Before he lost his nerve, Draco turned on his heel and marched back down to Savage’s office and slipped inside. His heart gave a jump: sitting on the bench by the door so it wasn’t immediately visible from the outside, was a familiar, thick file.

Draco didn’t question why it was here instead of in Peasegood’s office. He immediately stowed it in his bag, and then froze as he heard voices in the hall, getting louder.

A man’s voice. “I dunno, Aubrey, it was just a queer blip. Doesn’t make much sense, but a full scan seems in order, seeing as Savage had to leave so quickly—”

Draco edged towards the door; mind racing. The voices were getting closer—the stunned body of the curly-headed Auror was still out there, her feet sticking out just beyond the corner, they’d see it any moment, if they didn’t come into this office itself and see _him…_

“What’d he leave for?”

“Something happened at the Manor, apparently.” Draco, in spite of himself, felt a little leap of satisfaction. So _that_ was why the office was open and empty…he’d been cleverer than he’d intended. “The alarms went off there. Something’s going on—what’s that?”

Draco held his breath, hand tightening over his wand as the footsteps stopped short, and then scurried past the door. Draco immediately stepped out into the hall.

“ _Stupefy!_ ” The man went down; the woman whirled. “ _Stupefy!_ ” She blocked it expertly and Draco, adrenaline racing through his veins, spat out more charms and curses in such a quick tirade that she didn’t have time to answer any of them, simply to counter, while she backed away. Draco followed her, struggling desperately—he had to break through her defenses, had to stop her from raising the alarm, to give him enough time to get away—he was so _close_ …

She raised her arm too far, and Draco shouted again, “ _Stupefy!_ ” which hit her square in the chest, but he realized too late that she hadn’t been trying to cast a shield—she’d pointed her wand towards the panel in the wall instead, sent of a stream of sparks—and suddenly the air was quaking violently with a skull-splitting caterwauling. Draco clapped his hands to his ears instinctually with a yelp of pain that he couldn’t even hear. He staggered back.

_Too late, too late, so close, so close…_

He made a break for the lifts. He had to get out of here, get above ground get far enough away from the Ministry to Apparate—

He dove into the lift, praying that his accidental distraction—setting off the alarms at Malfoy Manor—would have a good deal of them occupied, prevent too many of them descending on the place all at once…

The lift lurched upwards and, mercifully, the caterwauling diminished slightly—just enough to hear a cool, calm, pleasant witch’s voice saying very politely, “If the Intruder will please turn him or herself in at the front desk, his or her cooperation will be taken into account in the following procedures analyzing the nature and intent of their offense. If the Intruder will please turn him or herself in at the front desk, his or her cooperation—”

The lift shuddered to a stop and Draco threw up a Shield charm as the doors open, and just in time—a guard was racing towards him, and he sent out a jet of red light that exploded against his shield in a shower of sparks. “ _Stupefy! Stupefy!_ ” The guard was not an Auror, and Draco was in a panic; the guard flew back against the wall, and Draco wasn’t sure if he slumped to the floor because he was Stunned or because he had hit his head. Just beyond him were wide, sloping staircases and dark marble and lush purple carpet—Level 1 of the Ministry, where the Minister’s office itself resided. Draco had been here many times, accompanying Lucius, but if he were caught here now…

He started to run to the stairs, and then a jet of light exploded on the wall next to him. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder; Draco skipped the stairs and vaulted over the side-rails instead, caught himself with an _Arresto Momentum_ , and raced down through the dark, cavernous central chamber that was so impressive during the day.

_Please still be here, please still be here, please…_

Draco ran to the side, down a narrower hall. He couldn’t hear anything because of the damn caterwauling, but if there were any Aurors in the building, or Hit Wizards, or other guards of any sort, they would all be heading to the known exists. His only hope was a non-exit. He had spent a lot of time at the Ministry, all things considered. Not just because of the troubles of previous years, but because he’d grown up with a Father who was constantly visiting, despite never actually working there, and he’d accompanied him when he could, learned where certain doors led, though he would have never been permitted to take them even if he’d wanted…of course, this was assuming he wasn’t mistaken about the history of the Ministry’s construction.

One more turn, and he found one such door at the end of a narrow corridor; plain, locked, no longer in use; an old underground access shaft no longer needed since the Ministry’s construction was finished—he didn’t know where it led, exactly, and because of that it wouldn’t have been any use to him (or anyone else) trying to break in. He could only pray that it would help him break out.

His chest burned and his side ached as he held out his wand and gasped, “ _Bombarda!_ ” The door blew off its hinges and he dove through it, springing up the narrow, multi-leveled staircase which smelled of mold and wet concrete. It was quieter in here; quiet enough for Draco to hear the spell zing past his ear as his pursuer appeared to be catching up. He blindly shot a Stunning spell behind him as his legs began to burn.

“Malfoy—” gasp “—stop—” gasp “—this instant—”

He was running through old cobwebs now, winding higher and higher. He stumbled as one of the old steps crumbled beneath his weight. His strap dug into his shoulder. He threw himself around each turn with growing desperation, pushing off the walls in a fruitless attempt to make himself go faster. The witch behind him, too, was gasping, her breath ragged and echoing.

He didn’t know how far up he’d gone, but Draco groped in the bag for his broom handle as he finally rounded the last turn and found himself standing on an empty concrete landing, with no doors or windows or exits of any kind. He staggered under a wave of dizziness as he fought for air. One wall was made up of a disorganized jumble of bricks; he pointed a shaking wand at it and gasped, “ _Reducto!_ ” The brick dissolved, and Draco felt night air on his face, and then the witch’s voice shouted, “ _Stupefy!_ ”

Draco didn’t even look. Broom in hand, he stepped through the opening. London’s streetlamps burned in his face as he plummeted towards the street from the upper floor of a two-story abandoned Muggle office building. He fell, and in that moment fleetingly felt as though he were playing Quidditch, diving for the Snitch.

He caught himself on his broom and soared up into the air, was looking at the cloudy sky, feeling exhilaration—he’d made it, he’d just have to find a safe spot to land, Apparate away from there—the sky was gray, it was nearing dawn—he glanced down. There, below him, standing on the street in a long coat, was a tall, horribly familiar figure with streaks of grey in his dark hair. Savage stepped back on one foot and threw something straight up. It whizzed towards him—not a spell, not a weapon—it looked like a small, nondescript plushy ball—

It silently exploded. The wave of it crashed over him, and Draco’s mind went blank. He was looking at the stars again, but only briefly, because then there was the street, the stars, the street, a rooftop—he was flying, falling, toppling and spinning over and over, and—

BAM!

He smashed into the pavement. Pain exploded in his shoulder. He spun in the air and landed hard on his side. His bag burst open, strewing precious papers across the damp ground. Shouts and lights waved in front of his eyes. His thoughts whirled and collided and refused to collude and cooperate.

_Run! Run!_

He couldn’t remember what he was fleeing from. Pain was tearing through him and he tasted blood and somebody was screaming.

“Call an ambulance!”

“Did he jump?”

He couldn’t tell which way was up; his eyes refused to focus. He blinked, saw one of the pages fluttering away from him. He couldn’t remember what it was.

_No!_ He reached out, dragged an armful towards him. He couldn’t make himself move his right arm; his shoulder was in agony, radiating pain down his side. His insides were a raw jumble of adrenaline and panic and raw feeling and instinct—

_Run!_

Something was coming to get him. He shoved his wand into his waistband, forced himself to reach out again, clawing the papers towards him, gathering them into a sloppy bundle that he clutched to his chest. He rolled over, looked up into the sky, saw someone flying down towards him. The sight of grey-streaked hair sent terror through him.

_Run!_

Draco imagined the only place he knew that felt safe. Then he rolled across his broom and Apparated.

His flesh tore apart. He tried to scream into the void but there was no sound; he thudded onto the ground, into long grass, shuddering, and all was silent. His heart throbbed through every inch of him. Fast. Too fast. He felt his blood pulsing out of him; it was in his eyes, covering his hands. His leg was too warm.

He stood, staggered forward, tried to cry out.

“Luna.”

His heart needed to slow down. It needed to stop killing him.

He didn’t know where he was; he couldn’t see. He fell to his knees. His arm shook with weakness and his shoulder burned. He clutched the papers tight, refused to let them go. He forced himself to reach out with his injured arm, feeling for his broom and the pain sparked in front of his eyes. His fingers closed over the handle. He looked out at the night. Distant lights. People.

_Danger._

_Run._

_Luna._

He bit his tongue hard between his teeth as he stood once more. He swayed, feeling his leg pulse with warmth and pain. _Fly._ His command was sloppy and distracted; the broom jerked and shuddered, and he cried out as knives stabbed through his arm with each vibration. Tears blurred and he whispered desperately, “ _Up.”_

He felt it come to life; he practically fell on it. It bucked, then moved. He couldn’t make it rise, he could barely tell which was up. But he needed it to—he needed to see—he needed to know where she was—he wrenched it towards the sky, it sped upwards, too fast, too vertical, he was slipping, falling—but he saw it, a distant, solitary light. He stared at it even as he fell back to the earth.

A distant, logical part of him said that if he didn’t stop falling, he might kill himself. He wrenched the broom straight and it caught him, jarred him, made him gasp and his stomach roil. The world spun.

_Run. Luna._

Couldn’t think. His feet dragged along the ground. Wind rushed through his hair, chilling his head; whizzing along at a fast clip, like the broom had taken on a life of its own, like his adrenaline was feeding it. He kept the fingers of one hand curled around its handle, but he felt a severe weakness in that arm, radiating from the pain in his shoulder, and if he fell—

He leaned too far forward; the broom dipped and hit the ground and he went flying again, landing hard on packed dust. He tried to get up, pushing one hand feebly and uselessly against the ground, his shoulder tearing further, still holding the papers with his other arm. He groaned. “Luna.” He raised his voice, but it was clogged and dim. “Help…” He fell back.

A door. “I’m not sure, it’s just I could swear I heard some—what— _Merlin’s beard_ —!” Someone pushed him over. A man’s voice. Not Luna. He opened his eyes, could see in only blurs of red. He tried to speak and could only groan. “My god…I don’t…all right, come on, inside—” The person pulled him upward, but he grabbed his bad shoulder and Draco let out an agonized cry. “Merlin, sorry, hold on—” With a grunt of effort, the arm went around his middle and pulled him up. Draco struggled to stand. He stumbled forward, half-carried by the unknown Wizard. They crossed a threshold; it was light inside. He crumpled to the ground, hitting against a small table. Newspapers spilled over the ground as the man called out, “Molly! _Molly!_ Come quick—oh, where’d I put my wand—”

A young man’s voice. “Dad, is that…?”

“Yes! Molly! Do we have any Dittany?”

Draco got to his knees. He started to move to rub the blood from his eyes but the pain was too great, his arm too weak and trembling.

“Arthur! What in _Merlin’s name is—_ ”

“Dittany, Molly, quickly!”

“What in the name of heaven— _Accio_ Dittany!”

“All right, hold still, just—”

Something pressed against his thigh and his entire body screamed out against it. Draco jerked back, falling on his side. He cried out again as he landed on his shoulder. He would not let go of the papers.

“Hold _still_ you idiot!” said the younger voice. Hands grabbed him, pressed against his back and good shoulder, holding him in place. Draco blinked rapidly, his vision somewhat clearing. He saw three blurry people staring at him. One wearing glasses and with thinning hair, pressing a cloth to his thigh, one standing just behind him, wearing a knitted cloak, and one kneeling beside him, holding him still.

“Oh, let me through!” The woman pushed past the other two, wand in hand, and Draco felt, rather than saw, the blood flow from his leg slow, though it was still pulsing warmly over his skin.

He still couldn’t think, but the feeling was one of immediate danger and panic and guilt, though he couldn’t remember why. The man pressed the cloth to his forehead, and then Draco broke away. He scrambled backwards on the floor until his back hit the wall. Clutching the papers to his chest, he did the only thing that instinct would allow—curl up as tightly as he could and shut his eyes.

_Hide._

The man said, “What in Merlin’s name are you doing here?”

The words clashed without meaning against him. He couldn’t string them together.

“Draco? Can you hear me?”

_Luna._

He curled tighter.

“Arthur, we need to send an owl at once.”

“We can’t, Molly, Errol isn’t back yet.”

“Then we’ll go to town and _find_ one! The Ministry’s been tearing England apart looking for him, and he’s in my kitchen!”

The man’s shadow draped over him. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Looks Confunded to me,” said the young man’s voice. “I reckon it’s the reason for the Splinching. He was nearly caught the other day and got away by Apparating, Ron told me. I reckon they wanted to prevent the same thing from happening again. Looks like they nearly succeeded.”

“Are you sure this is a simple Confunding, George? He’s completely…well… _look_ at him. It’s like he doesn’t know where he is. I’m not sure he even understands us.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. We had a thing. Fred and I did. It can do this sort of thing if concentrated enough. Or if hit with enough at once. It’ll wear off…eventually.”

The woman’s voice. “George, are the girls still upstairs?”

“Yeah.”

“Go tell them to stay there. I don’t want either of them near him until we figure this out.”

“Look at him, Mum, he doesn’t even have his wand. What do you think he’s going to do, breathe fire at us?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it! We need to tell the Ministry at once! If Death Eaters really are after him—”

“Leave it for just a minute, Molly, until we figure out—”

“We can’t leave it for too long, Arthur. That’s a serious Splinching and I’ve not done nearly enough, he needs a Healer.”

“Yeah, looks like he might still cark it,” said the young man, in a casual voice that suggested he found this to be an interesting factoid, but not a particularly concerning one.

“ _George,_ ” reproved the woman. “Arthur, where are you going?”

“Just stepping outside. He arrived on broomstick.”

“Actually,” the young man’s voice again. “Didn’t Luna say earlier she’d done some training as a Healer this past year?”

Draco lifted his head. “Luna,” he croaked. The woman and young man looked at him. His mind felt slightly clearer—at least, it had finally allowed a thought to clarify. It took a great effort to remember the correct word. “What…where’s…Luna?”

“Why do you want Luna?” Molly Weasley demanded.

George Weasley looked down at him. “She’s upstairs, Malfoy. Why?”

Draco uncurled and tried to stand. Geroge Weasley moved towards him, but Draco didn’t find out whether it was to help or hinder—a wave of dizziness overtook him and he was on his knees again, hunched over, wet hair dripping blood into his eyes as he desperately clutched the papers to his chest and his injured arm trembled, his hand tracing the floor. “Luna,” he whispered, then raised his voice. “ _Luna._ ” He couldn’t stand, it hurt too much to move, but he could speak. He cried out again. “LUNA!”

“Hush—” Molly Weasley began.

He had only one clear thought, and it was her name. “Luna! LUNA!”

_Pop_.

“Oh!”

He lifted his head and a sense of desperate safety finally wafted over him as Luna dropped to her knees beside him. “What happened?” she asked, her voice shrill. One hand cupped his face and he closed his eyes, groggy and sick and relieved. He leaned into her, resting his head on her shoulder. His forehead burned and stung but he didn’t care.

Arthur Weasley had come back inside. “He’s Splinched. Took some skin off his forehead and hands, but his leg’s the real problem—”

Another set of footsteps, and then Ginny Weasley’s voice, “Oh, Merlin’s _beard!”_

Luna muttered an incantation, and he felt a sudden chill in his thigh and she said, “Draco, how much blood have you lost?”

He couldn’t think how to answer. Arthur Weasley did for him. “Quite a bit. It’s all over the yard.”

“He needs a blood-replenishing potion, then,” said Luna. Her voice was tight and logical and cold. “He might go into shock otherwise. We must to Mungo’s right away.”

“That might take some time—can he Apparate in this state?”

“Dad, don’t we still have one of yours leftover from when the snake got you?” Ginny asked. “They sent some home with us.”

“Oh, right!” said Arthur Weasley, and his footsteps hurried away.

Luna’s hand touched his shoulder and he cried out, gritting his teeth. “It’s dislocated,” she said. “I don’t know right spell—”

“Oh, is that all it is?” said Molly Weasley’s voice. There was another intense burst of pain in his shoulder she grabbed it and _pushed_. Then the pain mercifully vanished, leaving only a dull throbbing. Draco sagged, slowly lifting his other hand and crossing it across his chest, further sheltering the papers. “Charlie was constantly falling out of trees, and then when he and Bill wrestled or pushed each other off their brooms—well, I haven’t raised six boys for nothing.”

More thoughts were clarifying—little by little, sporadically, fitting together then drifting apart. Draco opened his eyes and lifted his head again as Arthur Weasley hurried back into the room. He left blood on Luna’s dressing gown, a deep red against pale yellow. “I found it! It’s a bit old now, though, I don’t know if it’ll still be good.”

Luna, still on her knees, had one hand on his shoulder. “Will it, Draco?”

Draco blinked languidly at the potion, feeling dizzy and cold. A long moment passed before the pieces of the puzzle clicked together in his head and he understood what was being asked of him. “Sealed,” he said, his tongue like lead.

Arthur Weasley looked at it. “Yes, it’s still sealed.”

Draco held out his hand. Arthur Weasley unstopped it and handed it to him, and he drank. Then he leaned back against the wall, resting his head against it and shutting his eyes. A long silence. Draco started to feel warmer. Then Molly Weasley said, “He’s getting some color back.”

Luna took a deep breath, held it, and then burst out, “Draco, you _moron_!” Something slapped him painlessly across the face. Draco opened his eyes in surprise. Luna, grabbing handfuls of spilled newspapers and scrunching them together, threw the pages at him again, and again, and again…“You— _idiot_ —what did you think—did you _think_ —what did you _expect_ —worried—gone like the rest of them—what were you _doing_? Where have you _been_?” With each outburst she hit him with the paper. It didn’t hurt.

His mouth opened, but the words wouldn’t come. She was angry, she wanted answers—he needed to explain—but he didn’t understand himself—he couldn’t think— “I-I—d-don’t—haven’t—Aurors—broom—Nippy,” he stammered.

Luna peered closely at him, then stood up. “What’s wrong with him?”

George Weasley had retreated to the other side of the room where he leaned against the wall with his arms folded, watching intensely. “Confunded.”

“Confunded,” Luna repeated. She glared down at Draco. “Well, serves you _right._ ” She turned on her heel and stormed from the room. His safety left with her. Draco looked at the ground.

There followed an awkward silence while the Weasleys all looked at each other. “We still need to contact the Ministry,” said Molly Weasley at last. “Do you suppose anyone still be at the Ministry at this hour if I hop over on the Floo Network?”

“No!” Draco gasped. “No, please…” God damn it, why couldn’t he _think_? Desperate to explain, he finally brought his arms away from his chest, displaying the papers—now wrinkled and torn and wet and bubbling with his blood, fragile. He frowned in concentration, his lips moving silently as he struggled to remember how to convey his thoughts. “My parents,” he managed at last, holding his papers out towards the family, like an offering. “My parents. Please.”

There was a brief moment where they all simply looked bemused. Then Ginny marched forward and took the handful from him. The moment the papers left his fingers, Draco regretted it. But he let his arms fall back and held his sore shoulder while Ginny flipped through the papers, turning them right-side-up and straightening them, carefully peeling the blood-dampened pages apart from each other.

Arthur Weasley came forward next, looking over her shoulder. “Merlin’s beard. What is this, a record?”

Draco nodded, mutely.

Ginny looked up at him. “What’s it for, Malfoy?”

“My parents,” Draco repeated.

“I can see that. What’s it got to do with anything?”

Draco gestured at it, feeling frustrated. If he could only _think_ …he needed those papers, they were the only things connecting him to his parents, Peasegood knew something, Peasegood was obsessed, Peasegood had created those records, there had to be a connection in there somewhere, a clue, a _reason_ …why couldn’t she _see_ that?

“This is all from the First War,” said Mr. Weasley in an awed voice. “Blimey, I remember reading that article…made me livid, to tell you the truth…”

Mrs. Weasley and George also gathered around Ginny. Draco pulled his bag around and opened it.

“Hold it—” George started forward. Draco ignored him, pulling out the rest of the file. “There’s _more_?” He reached for it but Draco held it away.

“Papers,” he said. They looked blankly at him. Draco held out his hand, his irritation increasing. “Ginny, _papers_.”

Ginny looked extremely surprised. So did George. “Since when are you on a first-name basis with Malfoy?”

“I’m not,” she said, her lips twisting in distaste, but she handed him the papers she held all the same. Draco looked at them, and began to put them back in their original order as best he could. There were several moments silence as he worked. He could feel their stares on the back of his neck, and was overwhelmed with the sensation of being horribly out of place. He'd never even seen the Weasley home before, much less been in it, much less been kneeling on their floor, bloody and weak, while they all watched him silently. He wondered what Luna was doing. It hurt that she wasn’t out here. Did she not understand he hadn’t _meant_ to leave?

“Is this about finding your parents?” Ginny asked at last. Draco nodded. He found a rather thick and rather wet page that seemed to belong in an index—a map of the UK, with known old Death Eater hideouts circled. They were all cleared by now, of course.

“Are you working with them?” Mrs. Weasley demanded. Draco shook his head. “Well, then, are Death Eaters after you?” Draco nodded, then shrugged. “ _Arthur_.”

“Is that what you were running from?” George asked firmly.

“Aurors,” said Draco. He might have tried to explain further, but the damp map page tore. He swore under his breath, then looked closer at it. The two side of the wet paper had separated as it bubbled, and the tear revealed a previously sealed space between two sheets of parchment. And inside was a smaller piece of parchment, about the size of Draco’s palm, with small, faint writing, made even fainter by bloodstains.

“Has it occurred to you,” said Ginny, apparently noticing nothing, “that the Ministry wants to find you parents and the others as much as you do, and would probably appreciate your help in finding them?”

“They wouldn’t,” said Draco, pulling out the piece of parchment as casually as he could before he pressed the edges of the torn parchment back into place

Mr. Weasley spoke up, sounding genuinely concerned. “What makes you think that?” Draco shot the family his most scornful look. “I know you must not be feeling very friendly towards the Ministry, given your…well…parole and all, but—”

Draco palmed the parchment he’d found and stood up. Pain swelled in his leg. He staggered, caught himself on the table, and thrust out the file towards the family without looking at them. George took it this time, and then Drao took a purposeful step towards the doorway Luna had gone through.

“Oh, hold on!” Mrs. Weasley hurried forward and caught his shoulders. Draco grimaced and drew back, trying to throw her off. “You can’t _walk_ yet, you’re lucky you didn’t lose your entire leg in the Splinching.”

“Luna,” Draco said, and then he managed an entire sentence. “I need to talk to Luna.” Now that his head was clearer, he felt very uneasy about her angry reaction to seeing him again. It didn’t fit.

“Just a wild guess, but I think she would’ve stayed if she’d wanted to talk to you,” said George, holding up a bloody page to the light in an effort to read the faint ink.

“Quite right,” said Mrs. Weasley firmly. “I don’t blame her being upset, you’ll need to thank her for helping your leg at all. If I were her—”

“I need to talk to her,” Draco repeated.

“No,” said Mrs. Weasley. “You have no reason to.”

“They’re going out, Mum,” said Ginny, staring in a memorized way at one of the pages.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Weasley, “Well. Regardless. Arthur, who can we go to at this hour?”

“What?” said Mr. Weasley, also immersed in the file. “Dear, did you know that they found a cursed lighter in one of the attics, for containing Fiendfyre—and Lucius looked me right in the eyes and said he’d never deign to have any sort of Muggle artefacts in his house, ha…”

“ _Arthur_ ,” Mrs. Weasley tried again.

“I’m talking to Luna,” Draco interrupted, trying and failing again to shake Mrs. Weasley off without losing his balance. He groped for his wand instead, and then his stomach plummeted when he didn’t find it. He swallowed. “Or I’m Apparating.”

“Oh…” Mrs. Weasley looked at her husband again and seemed to give up. “Oh, very well! Come on, then, dear.” And before he could stop her or fully comprehend that a Weasley had just called him _dear_ , she pulled his good arm over her own shoulders and half-pulled him through the doorway.

They didn’t have far to go. Draco, concentrating hard on not putting too much weight on his leg, but trying to use Mrs. Weasley’s support as little as possible, was looking at the ground until he hit his foot against the bottom step of a long staircase. Oh, damn. How was he going to climb _stairs?_

He looked up, and started. Luna was sitting on the steps, just a little ways above the ground floor, chin propped on her knees, looking down at the two of them. 

“I didn’t mean to leave,” he said in a rush.

“I’m sorry,” she answered in a distant, flat voice. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Draco took one look at her face, and what he’d been intending to say disappeared, replaced with “What’s wrong?” She blinked slowly. “Something happened. What’s wrong?”

Her fingers twisted the cuff of her sleeve. Her gaze roved over his face, then down his body. Draco let go of Mrs. Weasley and sat down hard on the stairs. He pushed himself higher with his good leg, up until his hand rested next to Luna’s ankle. She watched him come, then glanced back down the stairs. Mrs. Weasley was still standing there. “Daddy’s gone.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “What?” She didn’t elaborate. “What do you mean, gone?”

“I don’t know. He’s gone from Kent. We couldn’t find him. Harry helped me look.”

Draco felt a rush of anger and jealousy. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “Good,” he said, with effort.

“Good?” Luna stared at him.

He flushed. “I mean—good that Potter—because I…” he trailed off, still unable to bring his thoughts into full formation.

“Oh,” Luna nodded. “Yes, it was good of him.”

Draco waited a moment. “But…how…?”

Luna sighed. “I got a letter. From Kent. Returning the last one I sent, saying Daddy had already left.” Draco looked indignant. She added, “He was there voluntarily, they had no reason to keep him if he decided to leave. They had no idea he wouldn’t make it home…” Her eyes filled, but didn’t spill over. She dabbed at them with her sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said after another moment. “Sorry I wasn’t…I should’ve…Nippy…”

“Nippy Apparated you out, I know. But you didn’t?”

“Mum told her to.”

“Oh.” Luna took a deep breath. “We talked to them, but they couldn’t give us any answers. They said…they said he’d gotten other letters, not from me. I’m worried that…I know he’s not always in his right mind, he acts rashly sometimes, I just…” she trailed off again, then leaned down and seized Draco’s hand. “But what about you? Where did you come from tonight? How did you get here?”

“I was trying to find you.” Draco glanced back down at Mrs. Weasley, ignoring Luna’s first question. “Ended up here by mistake.”

“Any idea where you parents are?”

For the first time, acutely aware that Mrs. Weasley was still watching them, Draco looked down at the piece of parchment in his other hand. He peeled it open with his thumb, scanned the contents, and frowned. The parchment held only six words, in firm, solid handwriting that looked oddly familiar.

**Cwt y Bugail Blaenau Ffestiniog Gwynedd**

He held it up to her. “What do you make of this?”

Luna scooted down the steps to sit next to him and took the paper. “Is that Welsh?”

“I guess. Found it hidden in Peasegood’s file about my parents.”

“Do you think… _Peasegood_ knows where you parents are?”

She had voiced what Draco hadn’t dare to think. His heart began to pound. “Dunno.” Something occurred to him. “His office was empty, cleared out. Do you think…he might have…?”

“Gone to look for them?” Luna finished his thought. He nodded. “Draco, if he did, where would he have found out about it? And why wouldn’t he tell anyone where he was going?”

“Maybe he has.”

“You think Peasegood has gone to investigate a potential den of escaped Death Eaters, told his superiors about it, and they sent him off by himself?”

“Maybe he’s not by himself.”

Luna shook her head. “Draco…”

“May I see that?” Mrs. Weasley asked suddenly, holding out her hand. Luna stood up as Draco automatically lurched to take the parchment back. He moved too slowly, and Mrs. Weasley stood reading it, a frown on her face. “Arthur!” she called, walking back towards the front room. “Arthur, come look at this!”

“I don’t want them to see it!” Draco moaned.

“Why not?” Luna asked. “If this is a town in Wales, we need to find out where it is, don’t we?”

“They’ll tell the Ministry…”

“Which will lead to your parents possibly being found, right?”

She was right. So why did he feel so conflicted and uneasy? He rubbed his face with his palms. A wet sensation and a sharp burning across his forehead reminded him he’d lost some skin in his Apparition. “He’ll twist it,” he mumbled at last. “Make it look like they’re involved. If they’re not dead already.”

“Draco, I really doubt Peasegood is involved,” said Luna firmly. “It doesn’t make sense.”

He couldn’t explain it, this gut instinct. It was like when he’d known he had to get his hands on the folder. This town, or whatever it was, felt like it had to be the next step. Draco pointed in the direction of the front room. “That’s his paper! In his file!”

“Perhaps it was investigated at one point.”

“Then why’s it still there? Why was it hidden?” Draco was arguing for something for which he had no proof beyond his own instincts. Luna was arguing against it using known facts. The irony was not lost on him.

“It might not mean anything.” Luna bent down and put his arm over her shoulders, pulling him up. “Come on. Let’s at least read through the rest of the file.”

Draco wobbled and steadied himself against the wall. “But what about your father? Should—do you—can I help you look?”

“Thank you, Draco,” she said softly. “But I don’t know what else to do.”

She helped him back into the front room, where Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were standing before a large open book on the center table, on which a shimmering painting of the globe rotated. George sat on the floor with his back against the wall, eyes moving rapidly over the pages of the file propped against his knees. Ginny was nowhere to be seen. Mr. Weasley held the paper in his hand and said in a firm, clear voice, “Cwt y Bugail Blaenau Ffestiniog Gwynedd.” All three Weasleys looked intently at the painting, but it continued to rotate without changing. Mrs. Weasley glanced up as Luna and Draco sat down on a couch on the opposite side of the table. Draco ignored her, keeping his gaze fixed on the paper in Mrs. Weasley’s hand. “Cwt y Bugail Blaenau,” Mr. Weasley tried next. Then, “Ffestiniog Gwynedd? Blaenau Ffestiniog Gwynedd?” At this last combination, the globe painting stopped rotating. It rapidly expanded in size, swallowed the entire page, zoomed in on England, on Wales, and stopped at a point labeled, _Blaenau Ffestiniog_.

“Ah-ha,” said Mr. Weasley triumphantly. “It _is_ a town!”

“Then what’s…” Mrs. Weasley squinted at the parchment. “Cwt y Bugail?”

“No idea.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like the Weasleys knowing anything, not when everything they knew would be given to the Ministry. “Can I have that back?”

Mr. Weasley handed him the parchment and stood with both hands on the table, leaning over the atlas as he studied it. “I wonder what’s supposed to be here.”

“Nothing good, no doubt. Do you know?”

Draco, who was studying the handwriting of the parchment and trying to remember where he’d seen it before, didn’t realize Mrs. Weasley was talking to him until Luna nudged him. He looked up. “What?”

“Are these places familiar to you at all?” Mr. Weasley asked. “Ever visited a place called Cwt y Bugail?”

“No,” said Draco shortly, and he looked back at the paper. He didn’t think he knew anyone that was Welsh, at least not closely enough to recognize their handwriting.

“Finding anything, George?” Luna called across the room.

“Depends on what you mean by anything,” George said without looking up. “Where did you get this anyway, Malfoy?”

Draco looked at him for a moment, then deliberately looked back down without answering.

“I don’t like this, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley. “I don’t like any of it.”

“Luna, may I borrow your wand?” Draco muttered. She handed it to him.

“Where’s yours?”

“I dunno. Lost it on my way here.” His stomach churned, but he tried to ignore it. He tapped the paper. “ _Revelio._ ” Nothing happened.

Luna plucked her wand from his hand and went to the door. The sun was rising now; he couldn’t believe it had been only six or seven hours since leaving Aunt Andromeda’s…

“ _Accio_ Draco’s wand,” said Luna to the great outdoors.

“Don’t bother,” Draco said. “It could be in London.”

“Or it might be nearby, if you can’t remember,” said Luna practically. “Can’t hurt to try.”

Ginny re-entered the room, carrying a plateful of buttered toast. “Hungry?” she asked Draco, her own mouth full. He wasn’t, but he took a slice anyway.

“Ah, here it comes!” said Luna brightly. Draco turned, hardly daring to hope. She stood on her toes, her empty hand outstretched. A moment later, with a snapping sound, she’d snatched his wand out of the air. “You must’ve dropped it while flying,” she said, coming back inside and handing it to him. He was suddenly aware of both Mr. and Mrs. Weasley giving him uneasy looks, but he ignored them.

“Do we have a plan?” Ginny asked, taking another enormous bite of toast. Draco did, but he held his tongue.

“Well…” said Mr. Weasley.

Mrs. Weasley took his elbow. “Arthur, can I talk to you outside a moment?” She pulled outside and shut the door.

Draco immediately took another slice of toast, pocketed the parchment, and stood. “I’d like my file back, Weasley.”

George glanced up at him. “When I’m finished,” he said in an even voice, and went back to reading.

Draco glared at him. “Fine then. Keep it.” He flipped the atlas on the table around so it was right-side up and studied the map for a moment. Then he looked at Ginny. “Where would your boyfriend be at this hour?”

“I don’t know.” Ginny licked butter from her fingers. “At his apartment sleeping, if not out training.”

“Think you could take me to him?”

Ginny raised her eyebrows. George looked up from the file. “I could, but why would I?”

“To keep an eye on me. Otherwise, I’ll just nip out by myself and you’ll lose me completely.”

“Not completely,” said Ginny calmly. “You’ll be headed to…” she eyed the atlas. “Blaenau Ffestiniog, won’t you?”

Draco cracked a smile that held no humor. “If you think that’s enough for the Ministry to catch me, think again.”

Luna took his hand. “Why do you want to talk to Harry, Draco?”

“Because he’s the only employee I can think of that might be willing to break its rules, and I need more information.” He hated to give Potter credit for anything, but it was true. “And I know Weasley will report me as soon as look at me unless Potter tells him not to.”

George stood up. “We’ll take you, Malfoy, but we’re coming with.”

“Excuse me,” said Ginny, eying her brother. “but I haven’t agreed to take him, or anyone, anywhere.”

George smiled, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. “I’d like to see where this leads. He can’t fight all of us, Ginny, and in London he’ll just be a hop, skip, and a jump away from three dozen highly-trained Wizards that’d love to land him in Azkaban.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Geroge drummed his fingers on the file. “Explain where you got this, then, or why you were running from Aurors.” Draco didn’t respond.

Ginny cocked her head and studied him. “All right,” she said at last. “But only because Harry would be extremely annoyed if he heard you’d showed up here then gotten away again.” She glanced towards the front door, where Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s shadows were standing against the curtained windows, heads bent close together. “Come on, quick, before they come back inside.” She led them into the depths of the house, Draco limping badly but refusing to lean on Luna. They reached the kitchen and Ginny took down a flowered pot from the mantel of the fireplace. “Everyone take a bit.”

Draco took a pinch of the powder. “You go first.”

“So suspicious,” said Ginny coolly. “Fine. The address is 1-6 Dufours Place.”

“Is that Potter’s apartment?”

“It’s his building.” She stepped into the fireplace, looked Draco in the eyes, and cast her powder down. She was gone in a whirl of green flames.

Draco looked at George. “You next.” The last thing he needed was for one of them to stay behind and tell Mr. and Mrs. Weasley where he’d gone.

George gave him a very hard look, still holding his file. “And leave you here? No.”

Draco scowled, but before he could say anything Luna spoke up, “I’ll make sure he goes, Draco. You go on. We’ll follow.”

The front door opened. Mrs. Weasley called out, “George? Ginny?”

There was no time to argue. He would have to trust her. Draco jumped into the fireplace and nearly collapsed as he accidentally put too much weight on his leg. “1-6 Dufours Place!” he said quickly, throwing down his powder. In a whirl of green flames and smoke, the Weasley kitchen vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pros of not planning everything out beat-by-beat in a WIP: everything stays fresh, the story can take unexpected turns, the author has a lot of fun discovering what happens next while they're writing it.
> 
> Cons of not planning everything out beat-by-beat in a WIP: sometimes the author may write themselves into a corner and spend several weeks fighting writers block while frantically trying to figure out how to get the characters to the next place they need to be
> 
> haha
> 
> Also, it's been two years. I'm in shock.


End file.
